* 


BY 


^-SOUTHWORTH 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

Mrs*  George  Papashvily 


GIFT 


THE   LOST  HEIR 


CHAPTER    I. 

A  WEDDING  DAY. 

It  was  an  exceptional  morning  in  that  stern  climate, 
and  at  that  severe  season  —  a  splendid  winter  morning; 
as  splendid  as  the  sun,  shining  down  from  the  clear, 
deep  blue  sky  upon  the  snowclad  hills,  the  frosted  fo 
liage  and  the  frozen  loch  could  make  it  ;  as  splendid  as 
if  it  had  been  especially  made  to  order  to  grace  the 
magnificent  nuptials  to  be  celebrated  that  day  at  Tro- 
sach  Castle;  as  splendid,  in  one  word,  as  the  fortunes 
of  the  expectant  bridegroom  and  the  bride-elect  ;  for  on 
that  day  Alexander,  Earl  or  Ornoch,  was  to  wed  Eglan 
tine,  Lady  Linlithgow,  the  wealthiest  heiress  in  all 
Scotland,  and  a  baroness  in  her  own  right. 

Trosach  Castle  was  one  of  those  ancient  strongholds 
of  the  Western  Highlands  closely  associated  with  the 
national  history.  It  was  built  about  half  way  up  the 
ascent  of  Ben  Trosach,  at  the  head  of  Loch  Trosach. 
It  faced  south,  commanding  the  full  length  of  the  loch 
and  sterile  "inch,"  or  isle,  of  the  same  name.  In  the 
rear  the  castle  was  shielded  from  the  north  winds  by 
the  higher  steeps  to  the  mountain,  which  was  also 
thickly  grown  with  a  fir  wood. 

Trosach  Castle  had  a  great  history.  The  very  date 
of  its  first  erection  had  been  lost  among  the  fables  of 
antiquity.  It  had  been  a  royal  hunting  lodge,  tradi 
tion  said,  from  the  time  of  Malcolm  I.  Certainly  it 
had  been  so  for  several  reigns  when,  in  the  year  1170, 
it  was  bestowed  by  William  the  Lion  on  his  favorite 
Eric,  Baron  of  Shetland.  Then  it  was  transformed 

3 

OC3 


4  THE  LOST  HEIK 

from  a  royal  hunting  lodge  into  a  feudal  castle.  And 
in  the  centuries  of  civil  war  or  feudal  strife  that  fol 
lowed,  it  was  taken  and  retaken,  destroyed  and  rebuilt, 
many  times;  but  early  in  the  present  century,  the  pe 
riod  at  which  our  story  commences,  it  was  still  in  the 
possession  of  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  ancient  lords 
of  Shetland. 

Ronald,  Marquis  of  Shetland,  had  been  distinguished 
in  the  councils  of  his  country,  a  leading  Tory  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  an  able  diplomat  at  foreign  courts,  a 
wise  colonial  governor  in  India,  where  wisdom  was  of 
more  value  than  was  force  of  arms.  But  now  he  was 
retired  from  public  affairs,  and  was  living  quietly  at 
Trosach  Castle. 

He  had  married,  early  in  life,  a  daughter  of  the  an 
cient  house  of  Murray,  a  handsome,  haughty  woman, 
who  only  needed  temptation  and  opportunity  to  be 
come  cruel  and  wicked. 

No  children  had  blessed  this  long  union,  but  their 
place  was  well  filled  in  the  hearts  and  home  of  the 
childless  couple  by  the  orphan  niece  and  ward  of  the 
earl,  the  beautiful  Eglantine  Seton,  Baroness  of  Lin- 
lithgow,  in  her  own  right. 

The  wardship  of  this  young  lady  was  a  most  im 
portant  trust,  involving  a  great  responsibility. 

Eglantine  Seton's  history  and  condition  were  very 
singular  and  intersting,  for  from  the  infrequency  of 
marriage  and  the  absence  of  children  among  her  near 
est  kindred,  she  had  been,  from  her  very  birth,  pre 
sumptive  heir  of  four  great  estates,  situated  severally 
in  Scotland,  England,  Wales  and  Ireland.  Before  she 
had  attained  her  twelfth  year  she  had  succeeded  to, 
one  after  the  other,  all  these  rich  estates,  and  thence 
she  came  to  be  called  the  "combination  heiress."  And 
before  she  had  reached  her  fourteenth  year,  by  the 
death  of  her  father,  the  tenth  and  last  baron,  she  be 
came  Baroness  Linlithgow  in  her  own  right. 

From  her  sunny  home  at  Seton  Court  Eglantine 
was  taken  to  the  stern,  dark  castle  on  the  hill,  and 
an  aged  tutor  provided  for  her  in  the  person  of  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Graham,  a  retired  clergyman. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  5 

For  three  years  Eglantine  lived  a  very  lonely  life 
at  Trosach  Castle,  seeing  only,  beside  the  home  circle, 
the  members  of  four  or  five  neighboring  families. 

Of  these  the  most  intimate  at  the  castle  were  the 
Douglases  of  Inch  Trosach,  and  the  young  Earl  and 
the  Dowager  Countess  of  Ornoch,  at  Castle  Ornoch,  on 
the  west  bank  of  the  loch. 

The  Dowager  Countess  of  Ornoch  was  the  elder 
sister  of  Lady  Shetland,  and,  of  course,  the  young  earl 
was  that  lady's  nephew.  And  if  there  was  one  person 
on  earth  whom  Lady  Shetland  loved  above  all  others, 
that  person  was  her  ladyship's  nephew,  the  young  Earl 
of  Ornoch.  He  wras  poor.  His  title  was  one  of  the 
oldest  in  North  Britain,  but  his  estates  were  very  heav 
ily  incumbered. 

The  colossal  fortune  of  the  "combination  heiress," 
the  youthful  Baroness  Linlithgow,  was  just  what  was 
needed  to  redeem  the  heavily-mortgaged  patrimony  of 
the  young  Earl  of  Ornoch.  And  an  alliance  between 
the  parties  would  not  only  redeem  the  estates  of  the 
earldom,  but  add  to  it  much  wider  possessions,  if  not 
higher  honors,  than  it  had  ever  enjoyed  before. 

This  being  the  case,  it  was  in  the  very  nature  of 
things  that  the  two  sisters,  the  Marchioness  of  Shet 
land  and  the  Dowager  Countess  of  Ornoch,  should  plan 
to  unite  in  marriage  the  impoverished  young  earl  and 
the  wealthy  young  baroness. 

To  forward  this  plan,  the  young  people  were  thrown 
very  much  together,  and  encouraged  by  every  means 
to  cultivate  each  other's  friendship. 

The  earl,  on  his  part,  needed  no  prompting  to  seek 
Eglantine  Seton's  society.  His  was  a  case  of  first  love, 
at  first  sight,  for  at  their  very  first  meeting,  when 
Eglantine  was  but  fifteen  years  of  agev  he  had  been 
at  once  attracted  IfnT  Tt'e1ign'^"d''"<T>3r*her  "glad  eyes," 
had  been  drawn  to  his  doom  by  their  light,  "as  the 
moth  by  the  lamp" — old  simile,  but  ever  true. 

And  Alexander,  Earl  of  Ornoch,  tall,  finely  formed, 
with  a  noble  head  and  face,  dark,  curling  'hair  and 
beard,  and  dark,  speaking  eyes,  was  quite  handsome 
enough  to  win  the  heart  of  any  maiden  he  might  choose 


6  THE  LOST  HEIR 

to  woo.  He  loved  the  youthful  baroness,  not  for  her 
rank  or  for  her  wealth,  but  for  her  "glad  eyes,"  and  he 
determined  to  woo  her  and  win  her  if  he  could,  that 
their  light  might  shine  on  him  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

And  Eglantine?  She  loved  Alexander,  too,  but  only 
as  it  was  her  affectionate  nature  to  love  all  with  whom 
she  lived  and  moved  and  had  her  being.  She  loved  the 
dogs  and  horses,  and  the  "gillies,"  each  one,  man  or 
brute,  with  an  individual  and  discriminating  affec 
tion.  She  loved  her  ugly  old  master,  who  tormented 
her  with  Greek  and  Latin,  Hebrew  and  theology.  She 
loved  her  gouty  and  irritable  old  uncle,  who  snapped 
and  snarled  at  her  like  a  spiteful  old  Scotch  terrier. 
She  even  loved  her  cold,  stern  aunt,  whose  strict  disci 
pline  made  her  life  a  burden  to  her,  and  she  loved  all 
her  neighbors. 

But  oh!  how  much  more  than  these,  than  all,  than 
any,  she  loved  her  nearest  neighbor  and  earliest  play 
mate,  young  Willie  Douglas,  the  penniless  nephew  of 
old  Dugald  Douglas  of  Inch  Trosach. 

And  here  was  the  obstacle  to  their  plans  that  neither 
Lady  Shetland  nor  Lady  Ornoch  had  ever  dreamed  of. 

Just  midway  between  the  shores  of  the  loch,  and, 
consequently,  just  midway  between  the  estates  of  Or 
noch  and  Trosach  Castle,  stood  the  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  this  unseen  and  unsuspected  obstacle;  Inch 
Trosach  dividing  the  two  estates  which  these  ladies 
wished  to  join,  no  less  certainly  than  young  Willie 
Douglas  divided  their  heirs. 

That  this  boy  and  girl  should  love  each  other  their 
most  intimate  friends  would  never  have  suspected.  Cer 
tainly  Willie  Douglas  was  not  manly  enough,  or  even 
well-dressed  enough,  to  be  considered  an  object  of  dan 
ger  to  young  ladies,  or  of  dread  to  their  guardians.  He 
was  not  so  handsome  as  the  tall,  elegant  and  graceful 
young  Earl  of  Ornoch ;  his  dress  was  homely,  and 
often  shabby;  his  uncle,  old  Dugald,  was  an  impover 
ished  gentleman,  whose  small  estate,  Inch  Trosach, 
was  not  only  almost  sterile,  but  also  heavily  mortgaged, 
so  that  he  could  not  supply  his  son  the  means  of  mak 
ing  a  very  genteel  appearance.  So,  if  Willie  Douglas 


THE  LOST  HEIR  7 

was  not  desired  as  an  eligible  parti  by  dowagers  who 
had  marriageable  daughters,  neither  was  he  dreaded 
as  a  dangerous  one. 

On  the  contrary,  from  his  childhood  up,  every  one 
who  knew  him  had  loved  the  gentle  boy,  and  liked  to 
have  him  run  in  and  out  of  their  houses,  with  any 
other  household  pet. 

So  how,  then,  would  it  ever  occur  to  any  one  that 
poor  Willie  Douglas  would  ever  become  the  rival  of  the 
splendid  young  Earl  of  Ornoch  for  the  hand  of  Eglan 
tine,  Lady  Linlithgow? 

Yet  there  was  something  very  attractive,  almost  an 
gelic,  in  the  expression  of  Willie's  countenance,  and 
perhaps  it  was  that  which  won  Eglantine's  heart.  Wil 
lie's  form  was  slight  and  graceful,  his  features  regular 
and  delicate,  his  complexion  fair  and  clear,  his  hair 
gold-hued  and  wavy,  and  his  eyes  were  blue  and  pure. 
They  were  not  "glad"  eyes,  like  Eglantine's ;  they  were 
sweet,  serious,  steady,  intense  eyes,  that  reached  the 
very  soul  of  her  on  whom  they  tenderly  gazed.  And 
this  was  the  difference  between  those  two  pairs  of  eyes 
— hers  attracted,  his  penetrated.  And  these  young  eyes 
had  met,  and  these  young  souls,  looking  out  from  them, 
had  blended  in  a  love  that  was  to  be  their  fate.  And 
all  this  had  happened  long  before  any  one  suspected  so 
much  as  a  passing  interest  between  them. 

And  yet,  so  subtle  and  so  pure  was  their  affection 
that  no  word  of  love  had  been  spoken ;  but  all  this  while 
the  youth  felt  sure  that  he  should  live  a  bachelor  all 
his  life  for  the  love  of  Eglantine  Seton,  and  all  this 
while  the  maiden  whispered  to  herself  that  so  soon  as 
she  should  become  of  age,  she  would  bestow  herself  and 
all  her  rich  inheritance  on  Willie  Douglas,  and  on  no 
other,  even  though  that  other  were  a  prince. 

Such  was  her  silent  plan  of  life,  never  uttered,  but 
so  familiar  to  her  own  imagination  that  she  had  de 
luded  herself  into  the  idea  that  every  one  else  must 
know  as  well  as  herself  what  her  future  destiny  was 
to  be. 

But  when  she  was  no  more  than  seventeen  years  of 


8  THE  LOST  HEIR 

age,  Eglantine  Seton  was  rudely  awakened  from  her 
love  dream. 

The  Earl  of  Ornoch,  who  was  full  ten  years  her 
senior,  being  then  twenty-seven  years  old,  thought  it 
was  time  for  him  to  marry.  And  as  he  had  known 
and  loved  the  youthful  baroness  for  two  entire  years, 
and  had  been  much  encouraged  by  her  family  as  well 
as  by  his  own,  he  made  a  formal  visit  to  Trosach  Castle, 
and  asked  permission  of  Lord  Shetland  to  propose  for 
the  hand  of  his  niece  and  ward.  He  received  the  mar 
quis'  consent  to  and  hearty  approval  of  his  suit,  and 
was  referred  to  Eglantine  herself  for  his  ultimate 
answer. 

With  grateful  acknowledgments  he  bowed,  and  went 
to  seek  the  young  lady  in  the  music-room,  where  he 
had  been  told  her  should  find  her. 

As  he  entered  she  arose  from  the  piano,  where  she 
had  been  seated,  and,  with  her  usual  courtesy,  came 
forward  to  meet  him. 

But  with  very  unusual  gravity  he  greeted  her,  led 
her  to  a  sofa,  and  seated  himself  beside  her,  and  then 
and  there  he  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  and  that  he 
had  her  uncle's  permission  to  ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  at  him  in  dumb 
amazement. 

He  repeated  his  words,  and,  with  deferential  tender 
ness,  pressed  the  question. 

The  she  opened  her  lips  also,  and  politely  but 
promptly  declined  the  honor  he  had  intended  her. 

It  was  now  his  turn  to  gaze  in  mute  astonishment. 

But  she  only  lowered  her  eyes,  and  kept  silence. 

At  length  he  found  his  voice,  and  spoke  again : 

"Eglantine,  you  cannot  mean  this.  I  come  to  you 
with  the  sanction  of  your  guardian,  as  well  as  with 
the  earnest  wishes  of  my  mother." 

"I  am  very  grateful.  It  is  an  honor,  I  know,  and 
I  am  very  sorry,  but "  said  the  young  girl,  hesita 
ting  through  the  distress  she  felt  in  giving  pain,  "but 
I  could  not  possibly  accept  your  proposal,  Lord 
Ornoch." 

"Why?    In  the  name  of  Heaven,  why?"  he  inquired 


THE  LOST  HEIR  9 

in  deep  disappointment,  yet  with  a  degree  of  hopeful 
incredulity. 

"Because  I  intend  to —  She  paused  and  dropped 
her  eyes  in  some  embarrassment. 

"Intend  to — what?"  he  pressed,  after  a  painful 
silence. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  knew.  You  ought  to  have 
known." 

"Known?  I  know  nothing,  understand  nothing  of  all 
this,  except  that  it  makes  me  anxious  and  wretched. 
Explain  yourself,  dear  Eglantine,"  he  pleaded,  taking 
her  hand. 

She  withdrew  it  gently,  saying,  slowly: 

"I  had  better  tell  you  frankly,  then,  that,  as  soon  as 
I  become  of  age,  I  mean  to  marry  Willie  Douglas." 

"Marry?"  he  echoed,  in  utter  amazement.  "Marry! 
Whom!" 

"My  own  Willie  Douglas.  Yes,"  she  answered,  blush 
ing  intensely,  yet  speaking  firmly,  as  in  loyalty  to 
young  Douglas  and  justice  to  Lord  Ornoch. 

"Marry  William  Douglas!  But,  Lady  Linlithgow, 
this  is  incomprehensible,  impossible!"  he  exclaimed  in 
great  agitation,  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  control.  "You 
cannot  be  serious  in  what  you  say,"  he  added,  after  a 
pause. 

"I  am  perfectly  serious.  You  have  my  answer,  Lord 
Ornoch,  my  final  answer,  for  I  can  never,  never  give 
you  any  other.  And  so  I  trust  to  your  kindness  and 
courtesy  not  to  pursue  this  subject  or  prolong  this 
interview,  which  is  so  distressing  to  us  both,"  she  an 
swered,  softly. 

He  arose  at  her  word  and  stood  before  her.  His  face 
was  very  pale.  He  said : 

"I  will  not  trouble  you  further  this  morning.  Eglan 
tine.  But — I  cannot  give  you  up!  you  whom  I  have 
loved  since  I  first  saw  your  sweet  face;  you  whom  I 
have  been  so  long  led  to  look  upon  as  my  future  wife! 
No,  I  cannot,  and  will  not  resign  hope." 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  turned  and  left  the 
room. 

Great  was  the  consternation  of  the  two  matchmaking 


10  THE  LOST  HEIK 

matrons  when  they  heard  of  Lord  Ornoch's  rejection 
and  its  cause.  They  held  a  "cabinet  meeting"  ar.d 
talked  it  over.  Willie  Douglas,  the  rival  of  the  l.arl 
of  Ornoch?  It  was  ridiculous!  it  was  incredible!  it 
was  impossible!  And  yet  they  concluded  that  some  de 
cisive  steps  should  be  taken  in  the  case. 

Lady  Shetland  called  up  her  niece  for  private  exam 
ination,  and  in  the  course  of  a  long  tete-a-tete  elicited 
from  Eglantine,  who  had  nothing  to  conceal,  some  very 
startling  facts ;  that  she  had  loved  Willie  Douglas  ever 
since  she  could  remember,  and  that  she  was  fully  re- 
solved  to  marry  him  as  soon  as  she  should  come  of  age 
and  be  her  own  mistress.  This  news  was  very  exas 
perating,  but  it  was  somewhat  palliated  by  what  fol 
lowed,  for  the  lady  drew  from  the  maiden  further 
information  tha  she  was  not  formally  pledged  to  her 
lover — that  no  explicit  engagement  had  been  entered 
into  between  them;  that  no  proposal  of  marriage  had 
been  made  by  him,  and  that  no  word  of  love  had  ever 
been  spoken  by  either  to  the  other. 

Lady  Shetland  heaved  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  All  was 
yet  safe,  she  thought.  Willie  Douglas  was  an  honorable 
young  fellow,  after  all,  to  have  refrained  from  binding 
Eglantine  by  an  engagement  when  his  temptation  to  do 
so  had  evidently  been  so  strong.  He  was  worthy  of  his 
ancient  name  and  heroic  lineage.  And  though  she 
could  not  reward  this  beggar  with  the  hand  of  the 
princess  who  loved  him,  yet  she  would  do  something 
else  for  him.  And  she  immediately  conceived  a  plan 
by  which  she  could  at  once  advance  the  fortunes  of  the 
young  man  and  remove  the  obstacle  from  her  way. 

In  the  days  when  she  had  loved  and  petted  the  beau 
tiful  boy  she  had  discovered  that  the  very  highest 
earthly  aspiration  of  his  spirit  was  to  enter  the  .army, 
an  aspiration  then  as  unlikely  to  be  fulfilled  as  if  it 
had  been  to  enter  the  royal  family. 

But  now  Lady  Shetland  resolved  that  his  ambition 
should  be  gratified,  so  she  went  to  the  marquis,  her 
husband,  and  told  him  of  Eglantine's  rejection  of  Lord 
Ornoch,  from  an  avowed  preference  for  Willie  Douglas, 
and  of  the  imminent  necessity  of  immediately  getting 


THE  LOST  HEIR  11 

rid  of  young  Douglas.  Then  she  spoke  of  the  youth's 
wish  to  enter  the  army,  and  proposed  that  the  marquis 
should  at  once  purchase  for  him  a  commission  in  a 
marching  regiment,  and  so  send  him  out  of  England 
for  years,  or  forever. 

Lord  Shetland  promptly  perceived  the  wisdom  of  this 
plan,  complimented  his  lady  on  her  genius  for  diplo 
macy,  and  promised  to  set  about  the  business  at  once. 

That  same  day  he  sent  a  note  to  Willie  Douglas,  invit 
ing  him  to  the  castle. 

He  received  the  youth,  alone,  in  his  library.  Then, 
in  the  kindest  manner,  he  spoke  of  his  wish  to  advance 
the  fortunes  of  his  young  friend,  and,  after  a  delicate 
little  preamble,  frankly  offered  to  purchase  for  him  a 
commission  in  the  army. 

Surprise,  delight,  gratitude  nearly  overwhelmed  the 
sensitive  and  ingenuous  boy.  At  first  emotion  deprived 
him  of  the  power  of  speech,  and  afterward  he  was  as 
sincere  as  he  was  earnest  in  the  expression  of  his 
thanks. 

The  marquis  affected  to  treat  the  matter  lightly,  and 
soon  dismissed  his  overjoyed  young  "friend." 

It  happened  that  the  family  were  about  to  go  up 
to  London  for  the  season. 

In  a  week  from  this  time,  therefore,  the  Marquis  and 
Marchioness  of  Shetland,  with  their  household,  were 
established  in  their  town  house  in  Park  lane.  Lord 
Shetland  lost  no  time  in  looking  after  Willie  Douglas' 
commission. 

Money  and  interest  combined  will  do  a  great  deal, 
if  not  everything;  so,  in  a,  comparatively  speaking, 
very  short  time,  William  Douglas  was  gazetted  as  a 
lieutenant  in  the Regiment  of  Foot. 

The  regiment  was  ordered  to  Canada,  but  there  was 
to  be  a  delay  of  a  few  weeks  before  it  sailed.  And 
Willie  Douglas  had  a  month's  leave  before  joining. 

He  ran  home  for  a  day  or  two  to  bid  farewell  to 
his  old  uncle  at  Inch  Trosach,  and  then  he  returned 
to  spend  the  rest  of  his  leave  in  London,  where  he 
could  be  near  Eglantine. 

Every  day  he  visited  the  house  in  Park  lane,  a  seem- 


12  THE  LOST  HEIR 

ingly  welcome  guest,  but  really  only  a  tolerated  one. 

"After  all,  it  is  no  great  matter,"  said  Lady  Shet 
land  to  Lady  Ornoch,  who,  with  the  young  earl,  was 
also  in  town.  "It  can  do  no  harm  to  let  the  little  fools 
see  as  much  of  each  other  as  they  like  during  this  one 
month  of  his  leave,  for  when  he  is  gone  once,  he  will 
be  gone  forever." 

And  so  the  month  drew  near  its  close,  and  the  time 
of  parting  came.  And  though  their  sorrowful  good- 
bys  were  spoken  in  the  presence  of  all  the  family, 
Eglantine  forgot  that  she  was  a  young  lady,  and  that 
the  eyes  of  others  were  on  her,  and  she  clung  to  her 
own  Willie  and  cried  bitterly;  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
Lieutenant  Douglas  forgot  that  he  was  a  man  and  a 
soldier,  and  cried  for  company.  I  fear  that  the  girl  of 
the  period,  in  her  elegant  language,  would  have  called 
him  "a  spoon,"  but  as  he  afterward  did  some  fierce 
fighting  among  the  terrible  Sepoys,  I  hope  my  readers 
will  forgive  him.  He  was  now  bound  for  Canada,  how 
ever,  and  not  for  India.  Still  he  wept  to  see  his  love 
weep,  for  the  bravest  are  ever  the  tenderest.  And  she 
gathered  courage  from  sorrow  to  lift  her  head  from 
his  shoulder  and  say: 

uYou  are  going  from  me,  Willie!  You  may  never  live 
to  return ;  but  remember,  Willie,  in  life  or  in  death, 
I  am  yours." 

He  pressed  her  hands  in  speechless  emotion. 

As  a  breach  of  conventional  propriety,  all  this  was 
very  shocking  to  Lady  Shetland,  but  it  was  not  in  the 
least  degree  alarming. 

"Pooh!"  she  said  to  herself,  "all  this  is  too  open  to 
be  deep.  They  are  children,  and  will  forget  each  other 
in  a  half  a  year,  or  less  time." 

"Well,  the  boy  officer  was  gone,  and  the  "glad  eyes" 
quenched  their  ligfrt  in  showers  of  tears. 

Her  aunt  and  uncle  were  as  kind  to  Eglantine  as  it 
was  in  their  unsympathetic  natures  to  be.  But  her 
greatest  comfort  in  her  trouble  was  her  old  tutor.  Sit 
ting  on  a  cushion  at  his  feet,  with  her  head  on  his 
knees,  she  would  weep,  complain  and  talk  by  the  hour. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  13 

And  he  was  always  sympathetic,  pitiful  and  patient 
with  her. 

His  functions  as  tutor  had  ceased  for  some  months 
past.  He  was  very  infirm,  and  somewhat  childish.  The 
marchioness  had  said  that  he  was  getting  in  his  dotage, 
and  talked  of  pensioning  him  off.  But  Eglantine  plead 
ed  for  him,  and  so  he  was  tolerated  for  a  little,  not 
as  her  tutor,  but  as  her  whim. 

Eglantine  was  not  yet  brought  out.  Lady  Shetland 
and  Lady  Ornoch  had  determined,  from  prudential 
motives,  that  she  should  not  be  until  after  her  mar 
riage  with  Lord  Ornoch. 


CHAPTER  II. 

EGLANTINE'S   SECRET. 

Thus,  while  the  two  elder  ladies  mixed  freely  in  all 
the  fashionable  gayeties  of  the  season,  Eglantine  re 
mained  at  home,  with  no  companion  but  her  old  tutor, 
and  no  visitor  but  Lord  Ornoch. 

He  came  almost  every  evening,  often  sacrificing  an 
attractive  ball  or  opera  for  the  sake  of — for  the  chance 
of — passing  some  hour  tete-a-tete  with  Eglantine. 

But,  in  one  respect,  all  the  plotters  against  the 
young  girl's  peace  were  disappointed. 

Lord  Ornoch  reaped  no  sort  of  advantage  from  the 
exile  of  poor  Willie,  or  the  sequestration  of  Eglantine. 
Quite  the  contrary,  indeed;  for  whereas,  in  former 
times,  she  had  always  been  willing  to  receive  the  young 
earl  as  a  friend  and  relative,  now  she  avoided  him  on 
all  occasions  when  she  was  not  obliged  by  etiquette  to 
entertain  him. 

When  expostulated  with  upon  this  subject  by  her 
aunt,  she  would  answer: 

•'If  my  poor,  dear,  banished  Willie  cannot  have  my 
company,  such  as  it  is,  no  gentleman  shall." 

"You  talk  as  if  you  were  betrothed,  and  yet  you 


14  THE  LOST  HEIR 

assured  me  that  you  had  not  been,"  said  the  elder  lady, 
sharply. 

"And  I  told  you  the  truth,  aunt.  And  yet  no  one 
else  can  ever  hope  to  have  my  hand.  I  can  never  be 
another  man's  bride,"  answered  the  young  lady,  with 
the  courteous  firmness  peculiar  to  her  manner. 

The  marchioness  was  provoked,  more  especially  as 
the  young  earl  was  growing  desperate.  He  urged  his 
aunt  to  use  more  influence  with  her  niece  in  his  favor. 

"You  should  know,  Ornoch,  that  I  shall  do  all  that 
is  possible  to  secure  you  this  prize;  you  are  my  own 
nephew,  while  Eglantine  is  only  my  niece  by  marriage. 
But,  in  this  enlightened  age  and  country,  no  young  lady 
can  be  coerced  to  marry.  You  must  give  her  time.  It 
is  scarcely  six  weeks  since  she  parted  from  her  child 
hood's  playmate,  for  Willie  Douglas  was  nothing  more. 
Give  her  time  to  get  over  her  silliness,  and  then  she 
will  listen  to  reason.  Attempt  to  hurry  Eglantine  and 
you  will  lose  her;  give  her  time  and  you  will  gain  her." 

"How  much  'time?'"  inquired  the  young  earl,  sar 
castically. 

The  lady  smiled. 

"We'll  say  six  more  weeks,  at  the  least,"  she  an 
swered. 

But  before  three  months  had  passed  from  the  time 
Willie  Douglas  sailed  for  Canada  terrible  news  came 
across  the  sea. 

The  Shetland  family  were  still  in  town,  although,  as 
it  was  growing  late  in  the  season,  they  were  talking 
of  going  to  Scotland  for  the  autumn. 

They  were  at  breakfast  in  the  house  in  Park  lane, 
Lady  Shetland  making  a  very  good  morning  meal,  as 
it  was  her  hearty  practice  to  do,  Eglantine  trifling 
with  her  teacup,  and  the  marquis  dividing  his  attention 
between  his  toast  and  his  Times,  when  he  suddenly  let 
fall  the  paper,  and  exclaimed: 

"Lord  bless  my  soul  alive!" 

Lady  Shetland  looked  up  in  mild  surprise.  She  did 
not  like  exclamations,  though  she  was  to  be  favored 
with  a  few  of  them  just  now. 

"Young  Douglas!"  again  exclaimed  the  marquis. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  15 

"What  of  him?"  coolly  inquired  the  marchioness. 

"Ah,  poor  fellow !    Dead !" 

"'Dead?'" 

"Dead  as  Julius  Caesar!     Killed!" 

"'Killed?'" 

"Killed!  Ay,  killed!  A  horrible  country!  But, 
good  Lord !  look  at  Eglantine !"  cried  the  old  man,  sud 
denly  breaking  off. 

The  lady  turned  her  head. 

Without  a  cry,  without  a  groan,  Eglantine  had  sunk 
to  the  floor,  where  she  now  lay  like  a  corpse. 

Lady  Shetland  touched  the  bell,  and  then  stooped 
and  unloosened  the  corsage  of  the  fainting  girl,  while 
the  marquis  stood  over  them,  looking  on. 

"Send  Lady  Linlithgow's  maid  here,"  said  the  mar 
chioness  to  the  footman  who  answered  the  bell. 

The  man  disappeared,  and  was  soon  replaced  by  a 
middle-aged  Highland  woman,  Elspeth  Comyns  by 
name,  who  had  been  Eglantine's  nurse  in  infancy,  and 
had  followed  her  from  Seton  Court  to  Trosach  Castle, 
and  afterward  to  London,  as  her  sole  attendant.  Of 
late  the  marchioness  had  suggested  that  plain,  elderly 
Elspeth  Comyns  should  be  replaced  by  a  younger  and 
smarter  maid ;  but  Eglantine  declined  to  part  with  her 
old  nurse  as  persistently  as  she  had  pleaded  for  the 
retention  of  her  old  tutor. 

"Eglantine's  fancy  for  dotards  amounts  to  a  mono 
mania,"  had  been  Lady  Shetland's  remarks  upon  those 
occasions. 

Elspeth  Comyns,  on  entering  the  breakfast-room,  and 
seeing  the  condition  of  her  young  lady,  ran  to  her  side, 
crying : 

"My  bairn !  my  bairn !  my  bonny  bairn !" 

"Be  quiet,  Comyns.  Lift  Lady  Linlithgow  in  your 
arms,  and  lay  her  on  the  sofa,"  said  the  marchioness. 

Elspeth,  as  able-bodied  a  woman  as  ever  came  from 
the  Highlands,  lifted  the  light  form  of  the  young  lady 
and  laid  her  on  the  couch. 

All  the  remedies  suggested  by  experience  were 
promptly  used  for  the  restoration  of  the  fainting  girl. 


16  THE  LOST  HEIR 

But  she  recovered  her  consciousness  only  to  fall  into 
alarming  convulsions. 

*™y  lady,  we  had  just  better  take  her  to  her  am 
chamber.  She'll  be  muckle  better  off  there,"  said  the 

SC"ICthinkyou'are  right,  Comyns.    Can  you  carry  her?" 
"Ou  aye!    Why  no?    I've  carried  her  of  ten  eneuch," 
replied  Elspeth,  once  more  lifting  the  young  lady. 

So  Eglantine  was  borne  off  to  her  own  room  anc 
undressed  and  put  to  bed. 

"Please,  my  lady,  and  you'll  leave  my  bairn  to  my; 
self.      I'se  bring  her  round  suner  than  amther  could, 
pleaded  the  old  nurse. 

"You  are  right  again.  You  understand  her  consti 
tution  better  than  any  of  us,"  graciously  answered  the 
lady,  well  pleased  to  be  rid  of  an  unpleasmg  duty, 
and  also  curious  to  learn  particulars  as  to  the  fate 
of  voung  William  Douglas. 

She  returned  to  the  breakfast-room,  where  she  found 
the  marquis  slowly  pacing  the  floor. 

"How  is  she  now?"  he  quickly  inquired. 

"She  is  in  good  hands.  But  what  is  this  about  young 
Douglas?  Not  killed,  really?"  ,1^*1^ 

"Really  killed.  I  told  you  so  before,"  replied  the 
marquis,  reseating  himself  and  taking  up  the  Times 

"But  how?  when?"  inquired  the  marchioness,  resum 
ing  her  seat,  and  ringing  for  more  hot  tea. 

"Let  me  see  "  pondered  the  old  man,  looking  over 
the  columns  of  the  paper.  "Here  it  is-letter  from 
Toronto.  Too  long  to  read  over  again.  Can  look  at 
it  for  yourself  aft£r  breakfast." 

"But  tell  me  something  about  it.    How  did  it  hap- 


,  duels  are  obsolete.  No;  adventure!  that 
should  be  obsolete,  too.  No,  the  young  fool  got  leave, 
joined  a  party  of  young  officers  on  a  visit  to  the 
States;  went  out  with  them  to  the  Western  plains  to 
hunt  buffalo;  got  hunted  themselves  by  a  hostile  tribe 
of  Blackfoot  Indians;  made  a  stand  and  gave  battle, 
and,  as  one  might  judge,  were  cut  to  pieces. ' 
"All  of  them?" 


THE  LOST  HEIR  17 

"All  except  one,  who,  being  mounted  on  a  very 
strong  and  swift  horse,  escaped,  and  finally  succeeded 

in  reaching  Fort — Fort "     The  marquis  hesitated, 

and  referred  to  his  paper. 

"Never  mind  the  name  of  the  fort.  Tell  me  if  this 
is  a  certainty,  and  not  a  mere  newspaper  report." 

"A  certainty?  Why,  it  is  from  the  special  corre 
spondent." 

"And  young  Douglas  was  undoubtedly  killed?" 

"Massacred!  hacked  to  pieces!  after  the  manner  in 
which  those  wretches  do  their  work!"  growled  the 
marquis. 

"Poor  young  man.  Hand  me  the  paper,  if  you  please. 
You  seem  to  have  done  with  it." 

And  the  lady  having  finished  her  breakfast  and 
obtained  the  paper,  commenced  the  perusal  of  the 
Toronto  letter. 

But  it  was  many  days  before  the  young  Lady  Lin- 
lithgow  learned  all  the  particulars  of  her  lover's  tragic 
death.  _ 

She  kept  her  room,  refusing  all  company,  repelling  all 
sympathy,  turning  away  from  food  and  drink,  weeping 
almost  incessantly. 

She  was  constantly  attended  by  her  faithful  Elspeth,. 
and  daily  visited  by  her  uncle  and  her  aunt,  who 
urged  upon  her  notice  dainties  to  tempt  her  appetite 
and  books  to  divert  her  mind. 

All  in  vain!  She  turned  from  all  these  things  and 
gave  herself  up  to  that  "sorrow  which  is  without  hope." 

She  had  secluded  herself  in  this  manner  for  more 
than  a  week,  when  an  event  occurred  that  forced  her 
out.  This  was  the  sudden  and  fatal  illness  of  her  be 
loved  old  tutor. 

Eglantine  went  at  once  to  visit  him  in  his  little 
room,  and  thenceforth  seldom  left  his  bedside. 

On  the  third  day  after  his  first  attack,  while  Eglan 
tine  sat  on  his  right  side  and  Elspeth  sat  on  his  left, 
both  chafing  his  almost  lifeless  hands,  and  while  the 
professional  nurse  was  engaged  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  room,  he  made  a  sign  for  Eglantine  to  bend 


18  THE  LOST  HEIR 

down  her  ear  to  his  lips,  and  then  he  whispered  to 
her: 

"My  child,  you  must  tell  them." 

That  low  but  penetrating  whisper,  intended  only 
for  Eglantine,  was  distinctly  heard  by  Elspeth,  who, 
in  a  vague  misgiving,  roused  herself  up  to  listen.  But 
she  heard  no  more. 

The  old  man's  life  was  ebbing  fast.  With  a  lost  effort 
he  lifted  his  venerable  hands  and  laid  them  on  his 
pupil's  head  and  blessed  her,  and,  with  that  blessing  on 
his  lips,  he  passed  away. 

The  illness  and  death  of  her  old  tutor  had  had  its 
wholesome  effect  in  rousing  Eglantine.  But  after  the 
funeral  was  over,  she  became  very  quiet.  She  ceased 
to  speak  of  her  lost  love,  and  almost  cased  to  weep 
for  him.  Her  aunt  and  uncle  seemed  kinder  than  ever, 
and  old  Elspeth  more  devoted. 

Some  weeks  passed,  during  which  Lord  Ornoch,  ad 
vised  and  assisted  by  Lady  Shetland,  made  good  prog 
ress  in  Eglantine's  favor. 

At  length  an  event  occurred  that  rendered  it  expe 
dient  for  him  to  hasten  his  marriage.  He  had  received 
the  appointment  as  ambassador  to  the  court  of  Vienna. 
He  was  expected  to  depart  in  a  few  weeks.  He  there 
fore  sought  an  interview  with  Lady  Shetland,  to  ascer 
tain  from  her  whether  it  would  not  be  possible  to  over 
come  the  reluctance  of  Eglantine,  and  induce  her  to 
accept  his  hand  at  once,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  take 
her  as  his  bride  to  Vienna. 

Lady  Shetland  looked  very  grave  over  the  proposal. 

"It  has  been  so  very  short  a  time  since  the  death  of 
her  childhood's  companion  that  she  has  scarcely  ceased 
to  grieve  for  him.  But  leave  everything  entirely  in  my 
hands,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  accomplish  your  wishes." 

"I  will  very  gladly  and  gratefully  do  so,  my  dear 
madam,"  answered  the  young  earl,  gallantly  lifting 
the  hand  of  the  lady  to  his  lips  and  bowing  over  it  as  he 
took  his  leave. 

Lady  Shetland  took  an  opportunity  the  same  after 
noon  to  broach  the  subject  to  Eglantine. 

But  not  inthe  first  trial,  nor  yet  in  the  second  or 


THE  LOST  HEIR  19 

third,  could  Lady  Shetland  succeed  in  gaining  her 
niece's  consent  to  become  the  wife  of  her  nephew.  But 
the  lady  could  be  patient  and  persevering,  and  patience 
and  perseverance  usually  win  the  day. 

Again  and  again  she  renewed  her  attacks. 

What  could  a  girl  of  seventeen  do  against  all  these 
influences  brought  to  bear  upon  her? 

Besides,  Eglantine  was  very  miserable  and  moody. 
She  had  moods  of  tenderness,  in  which  she  would  feel 
so  softened  as  to  be  almost  willing  to  yield  to  her 
friends'  entreaties;  mods  of  despair,  in  which  she  felt 
utterly  indifferent  to  her  own  fate,  and  would  as  will 
ingly  marry  as  die ;  moods  of  recklessness,  in  which  she 
felt  impelled  to  rush  into  any  change  of  life  or  scene  of 
excitement  that  could  distract  her  mind  from  the  dull, 
perpetual  aching  of  her  heart. 

And  Lady  Shetland  watched  her  through  all  these 
moods,  and  took  advantage  of  each  one  to  urge  the  ar 
guments  that  especially  suited  it. 

And  so,  at  lentgh,  she  gained  her  object,  and  won 
Eglantine's  consent  to  become  the  wife  of  Lord  Ornoch. 

As  the  day  and  hour  of  her  marriage  drew  near,  Eg 
lantine's  nervousness  almost  amounted  to  mania.  And 
on  the  night  before  the  wedding  morning  she  was  near 
ly  wild  with  excitement.  She  never  closed  her  eyes  in 
slumber,  or  even  reposed  her  frame  upon  the  bed.  She 
passed  the  night  in  pacing  up  and  down  the  whole 
length  of  her  bedroom  and  dressing-room,  moaning  and 
wringing  her  hands,  or  in  crouching  down  upon  some 
low  seat,  with  her  head  buried  in  her  lap,  as  if  over 
whelmed  with  the  weight  of  some  insupportable  shame 
or  fear. 

Vainly  old  Elspeth  tried  to  soothe  her,  or  to  win 
her  confidence.  The  wretched  girl  repelled  all  her 
nurse's  caresses,  and  kept  a  stony  silence,  until  at 
length  Elspeth,  much  alarmed,  declared  that  she  would 
go  and  call  Lady  Shetland. 

Then,  indeed,  Eglantine  started  up,  flew  past  her, 
locked  the  door,  withdrew  the  key,  turned,  and,  with  a 
pale,  defiant  face  and  flaming  glance,  confronted  her 
nurse. 


20  THE  LOST  HEIE 

"Call  no  one!"  she  said,  "unless  you  wish  to  see  me 
die  before  you !  Look !"  she  cried,  drawing  a  small  vial 
from  her  bosom.  "I  have  carried  this  about  me  for  a 
week  past,  wishing  to  drink  it  and  sleep  forever,  but 
wanting  the  courage  to  commit  such  a  sin!  But  make 
another  move  toward  alarming  the  house,  and,  as  I 
live,  I  will " 

"Oh,  my  bairn !  my  bairn !"  cried  the  nurse,  plucking 
at  her  own  gray  hair.  "Pit  doon  the  deadly  drug!  I 
will  na  fash  ye  wi'  onything  ye  dinna  like!  Pit  doon 
the  fearsome  stuff!  And  if  ye  would  but  tell  me  the 
trouble  that's  on  your  mind " 

Eglantine's  only  answer  was  to  throw  herself  down 
on  the  sofa  and  give  way  to  a  passion  of  sobs  and  tears. 
They  were  the  first  she  had  shed  for  several  days,  and 
they  relieved  her  terrible  excitement. 

Old  Elspeth  knelt  down  beside  her  and  patiently 
watched  her. 

All  was  very  quiet  in  the  room,  but  beyond  there 
was  talk  and  song  and  laughter.  When  the  sound  of 
this  revelry  came,  faintly  borne  upon  the  air,  Eglantine 
stirred  and  shuddered.  And  by  those  motions  only 
Elspeth  knew  that  she  was  not  asleep. 

At  length  the  light  steps  of  the  retiring  guests  were 
heard  along  the  passages,  and  the  whole  house  grew 
still. 

Thus  passed  that  dreadful  night. 

The  wedding  day  dawned  clear,  cold  and  as  bright  as 
ice,  snow  and  sunshine  could  make  it.  All  was  winter 
and  frost  without;  but  all  was  summer  and  warmth 
within  the  castle. 

The  family  and  their  guests  were  early  astir  and  at 
their  dressing-tables. 

Elspeth,  who  had  kept  up  the  wood  fire  all  night, 
now  replenished  it  with  fresh  logs,  and  then  went  and 
opened  the  window  shutters,  letting  in  the  dazzling 
light  of  that  resplendent  winter  morning.  Then  she 
arranged  the  dressing-table  for  her  young  mistress' 
bridal  toilet. 

Eglantine  was  very  quiet  now,  but  her  quietness  was 
even  more  alarming  than  her  excitement  had  been,  for 


THE  LOST  HEIE  21 

it  seemed  the  quietness  of  stupor.  She  made  no  oppo 
sition  when  Elspeth  proposed  to  ring  for  the  French 
maid,  who  was  to  dress  her  for  the  altar.  She  sat  in  a 
large  resting  chair  before  the  fire,  with  her  feet  upon 
a  footstool  and  her  eyes  staring  down  upon  her  folded 
hands.  She  was  very  pale  but  for  a  circumscribed 
crimson  spot  that  flickered  in  and  out,  like  a  smolder 
ing  fire,  on  either  cheek. 

At  length  there  came  a  light  tap  at  the  door.  Elspeth 
opened  it  and  admitted  Ma'am'selle  Felicie,  the  French 
dressing  maid,  who  courtesied  to  her  unconscious  lady, 
and  then  opened  the  wardrobe  set  apart  for  the  bridal 
toilet,  and  began  to  lay  out  the  various  articles  of  dress. 

"Come,  my  bairnie,"  whispered  the  Scotch  nurse, 
taking  Eglantine's  unresisting  hand  and  leading  her  to 
the  chair  before  the  dressing-glass. 

Eglantine  sat  down  like  one  acting  in  a  dream,  in 
seeming  unconsciousness  of  all  that  was  passing  around 
her. 

The  French  maid  was  struck  with  astonishment  at 
the  appearance  and  deportment  of  her  new  lady,  but 
after  the  first  involuntary  elevation  of  her  eyebrovrs, 
she  was  too  polite  to  betray  any  surprise. 

"Will  mademoiselle  that  I  shall  commence  her  toilet 
now?"  she  respectfully  inquired. 

Receiving  no  answer,  she  took  silence  for  consent, 
and  entered  upon  her  pleasing  task,  assisted  by  Els 
peth.  And  while  Felicie  combed  and  dressed  the  beau 
tiful  bronze  brown  hair,  Elspeth  encased  the  dainty 
feet  in  delicate  satin  boots. 

Eglantine  submitted  to  the  whole  process  apathetic 
ally,  unconsciously. 

Her  bridal  toilet,  when  complete,  was  very  magnifi 
cent.    She  wore  a  rich  white  velvet  dress,  with  a  long 
train,  and  trimming  of  white  chenille  fringe,  headed 
; with  white  satin  folds;  a  rich  old  cardinal  point  lace  ,< 
[veil,  worth  a  principality;  a  wreath  of  orange  flowers, 

)rinkled   with   small    diamonds,   for   dewdrops;   ear- 

igs,  brooch,  necklace  and  bracelets  of  rare  oriental 
iris.     Lastly  Felicie  slipped  on  the  little  hands  the 

unty  gloves,  placed  in  the  slender  fingers  the  fragrant 


22  THE  LOST  HEIE 

bouquet,  then  tilted  the  large  mirror  downward  a  little, 
and  said: 

"'Will  mademoiselle  condescend  to  look  and  see  the 
effect?" 

Eglantine  unconsciously  yielded  to  the  impulse  lent 
her,  lifted  her  languid  eyes  and  looked  into  the  mirror. 

But  if  the  fabled  Gorgon's  head  had  suddenly  met 
her  sight,  she  could  not  have  looked  more  aghast.  Her 
eyes  opened  and  widened  with  a  stare  of  terror  and 
horror;  her  face  blanched,  her  lips  parted,  and  like  a 
sleep-walker  aroused  to  consciousness  upon  the  brink 
of  an  awful  precipice,  she  threw  up  her  hands  with  a 
piercing  shriek,  and  fell  back  in  her  chair. 

The  French  maid,  with  a  little  answering  scream, 
seized  a  smelling-bottle  and  applied  it  to  her  lady's 
nose. 

But  Elspeth,  with  the  authority  of  an  old  nurse, 
came  and  put  the  new  maid  aside,  saying  quietly : 

"You  may  gang  your  ways,  my  lass,  and  leave  my 
bairnie  wi'  me.  She's  no  been  weel  the  night.  Gae 
awa'  wi'  ye  noo,  lass." 

Thus  urged,  the  Frenchwoman  left  the  room. 

Elspeth  crept  after  her  and  cautiously  locked  the 
door,  and  then  returned  to  the  side  of  her  young  lady. 

Eglantine  was  drooping  with  her  head  bowed  down 
upon  her  hands  over  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

Old  Elspeth  knelt  beside  her,  drew  her  head  upon 
her  own  bosom,  and  whispered  coaxingly: 

"Noo,  my  bairnie,  ye  ken  ye  maun  tell  auld  Elspeth 
all  your  trouble." 

"Oh,  Elspeth!  Oh,  nurse!  help  me!  take  me  away 
from  here!  kill  me!  save  me!"  cried  Eglantine,  wildly, 
incoherently. 

"  'Kill  you?'  'save  you?'  my  bairnie,  are  ye  daft?" 

"Oh,  Eispeth !  I  am  a  lost  and  ruined  wretch !  but  I 
didn't  mean  it.  I  didn't  know  it !  I  am  not  sure  of  it 
even  yet!  but  I'm  afraid!  I'm  afraid!  Oh,  Elspeth, 
help  me  to  run  away!" 

"To  rin  awa'!  My  bairn,  my  bairn!  I  can  rnak* 
naething  of  this!  Ye  maun  tell  your  auld  nurse  all 


THE  LOST  HEIR  23 

about  it!  And  dinna  ye  fear  to  do  sae;  for  I  luve  ye, 
my  childie !  I  luve  ye  weel !"  pleaded  the  old  woman. 

"Oh,  Elspeth,  since  my  dear  mother  died  you  have 
been  the  only  mother  I  have  known.  You  will  not  for 
sake  me,  Elspeth,  no  matter  what  I  tell  you?  no  matter 
what  may  happen  to  me?"  prayed  Eglantine,  lifting 
her  head  and  clasping  her  hands. 

"Whisth,  bairnie!  I  couldna  if  I  would.  My  saul 
cleaves  to  ye,  by  bairnie,  and  will  suner  leave  its  ain 
bodie  than  its  bairnie,"  murmured  the  nurse,  repres 
sing  all  her  own  great  anxiety,  and  seeking  to  soothe; 
her  "childie." 

"Elspeth,  sit  down  and  take  me  in  your  lap,  like  you 
used  to  do  when  I  was  a  babe,  and  then  I'll  try  to  tell 
you,"  said  Eglantine,  as  she  tottered  to  her  feet  and 
dropped  her  bridal  veil  and  wreath. 

Elspeth  complied  with  the  childish  request. 

And  then  Eglantine,  with  her  arms  around  her 
nurse's  neck,  and  her  face  hidden  on  her  nurse's  bosom, 
sobbed  forth  a  confession  that  turned  that  woman's 
ruddy  cheeks  white  with  horror  and  amazement. 


CHAPTER  III. 

EGLANTINE'S  CONFESSION. 

A  long  silence  followed  the  dreadful  revelation.  At 
length  the  sobbing  girl  broke  forth  wildly: 

"Oh,  Elspeth!  Elspeth!  Speak  to  me!  Reproach 
me !  Do  anything  but  keep  so  mute  and  still !" 

"I'm  just  considering,  bairnie,  what  maun  be  dune,5> 
answered  the  nurse,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  Elspeth !  Elspeth !  You  said  you  wouldn't  for 
sake  me!  I  know  it  was  a  great  sin,  but  you  said  you 
wouldn't  forsake  me!" 

"It  was  nae  sin,  bairnie,  nae  sin  at  a,'  but  muckle 
folly ;  for  noo,  ye  ken,  ye  canna  marry  the  Airl,  nor  ony- 
body  else.  Pity  ye  troth-plighted  yoursel'  to  him." 


24  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Just  at  that  moment  some  one  knocked,  and  then 
tried  the  latch  and  pushed  the  door. 

Elspeth  inquired  who  was  there. 

Lady  Shetland,  superbly  dressed  in  a  dark  blue 
Lyons  velvet,  camel's  hair  shawl,  and  point  lace  cape, 
sailed  into  the  room,  inquiring: 

"Ready,  Eglantine,  love?  All  are  waiting — why, 
what  is  all  this?"  she  exclaimed,  as  her  eyes  fell  upon 
the  crumpled  veil  and  crushed  wreath  that  lay  in  a 
heap  on  the  carpet,  and  on  the  disordered  dress,  tum 
bled  hair  and  tear-stained  face  of  the  bride. 

Eglantine,  overpowered  with  shame  and  fear,  sank 
to  the  floor  and  buried  her  face  in  the  cushions  of  the 
chair. 

"Elpseth!  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  sternly 
demanded  the  marchioness,  turning  to  the  nurse. 

"Ou,  me  leddy!  it's  nae  her  fau't,  but  she  canna  wed 
the  Airl,"  sighed  the  trembling  woman. 

"What  insolent  nonsense  is  this?  Are  you  mad  or 
tipsy,  pray?"  severely  demanded  the  lady. 

Before  the  frightened  nurse  could  answer,  Eglantine 
arose  and  stood  like  a  ghost  before  the  marchioness. 

"Aunt  Shetland,"  she  murmured,  in  a  faint  tone, 
"she  tells  you  the  truth.  I  cannot  wed  the  earl,  be 
cause  I  am  not  fit  to  be  his  bride!" 

The  lady  sank  down  in  her  chair,  and  looked  from 
her  niece  to  the  nurse. 

"Dinna  be  hard  on  her,  my  lady.  Dinna  be  hard  on 
her.  She  is  but  a  bairn,"  pleaded  Elspeth. 

"Leave  the  room,  woman!  Go!  I  will  talk  to  my 
niece,"  said  Lady  Shetland,  imperiously  pointing  to  the 
door. 

"Pit  your  trust  in  the  Laird,  bairnie,  and  dinna  be 
fasht.  Think  o'  them  that  watch  ye  fra  heaven,  bairnie, 
and  do  the  right!"  said  the  nurse,  as  she  passed  her 
young  charge  and  left  the  room. 

"Now,  then !"  said  the  lady,  bending  her  cold,  severe 
looks  upon  her  niece. 

Eglantine  sank  at  her  feet,  and,  pale  with  terror,  fal 
tered  forth : 


THE  LOST  HEIR  25 

"Oh,  Aunt  Shetland,  have  pity  on  me,  for  I  am  a 
very  wretched  girl !" 

"Be  plain,"  pitilessly  commanded  the  lady. 

"I  am— I  am— I  am  poor,  dear,  dead  Willie's  widow'" 
wept  Eglantine,  and  as  she  made  this  confession,  she 
crouched  lower,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"So!"  said  the  marchioness,  in  a  hard,  cold,  cruel 
tone.  "When  was  this  dishonor  consummated?" 

"We  were  married  while  we  were  in  London,  three 
weeks  before  Willie  went  away.  Oh,  Auntie!  pardon 
me!  pardon  me!  we  could  not  help  it!  We  loved  each 
other  so  much !  And  Willie  was  going  away  so  far !  to 
stay  so  long!  He  didn't  doubt  my  love,  poor  Willie' 
but  he  did  doubt  my  strength.  He  did  dread  that  I 
might  be  overruled  and  made  to  marrv  the  earl  in  his 
absence.  And  so " 

"He  beguiled  you  into  a  marriage  with  himself!" 
hissed  the  lady  between  her  closed  teeth. 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!  poor  Willie!  It  was  not  his  fault- 
was  mine.  I  told  him  that  I  also  doubted  mv 
strength  to  resist  my  guardian's  will ;  that  I  also  feared 
I  might  be  compelled  to  marry  Lord  Ornoch.  And  so 
that  I  might  keep  true  to  him,  I  offered  to  marrv  Willie 
Douglas  then,  and  to  put  it  forever  out  of  my  power  to 
be  false." 

"And  so  you  were  married?" 

Eglantine  nodded  and  sobbed. 

"Or  you  thought  you  were,  which  is  a  very  different 
thing.  -WTho  dared  help  you  in  this  disobedience?  Who 
dared  to  perform  this  illegal  ceremony?  Whoever  it 
was  committed  a  grave  misdemeanor,  for  which  he 
shall  be  held  to  a  severe  account.  The  law " 

"Aunt  Shetland,"  said  Eglantine,  sadly  and  gravelv 
and  recovering  something  of  composure,  "he  who 
joined  our  hands  is  beyond  the  injustice  of  the  law." 

"Run  away  to  America,  I  suppose,  well  paid  for  his 
part  in  this  felony." 

"Aunt  Shetland,  he  is  dead.  Our  old  tutor,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Graham,  it  was,  whom  we  prayed  to  aid  us.  He 
took  pity  on  us,  and  performed  the  ceremony." 

'Where  was  this  done,  and  when,  did  you  say?" 


26  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"In  my  old  tutor's  own  room,  in  London,  last  sum 
mer,  just  three  weeks  before  Willie  went  away.'' 

"Ah !"  commented  the  marchioness,  in  a  tone  and 
with  a  look  almost  devilish  in  their  cold  and  cruel  ma 
lignity — "Ah !  and  so  the  depravity  of  a  boy,  the  levity 
of  a  girl  and  the  imbecility  of  a  retired  clergyman  have 
combined  to  bring  deep  disgrace  upon  an  old  family 
never  dishonored  till  now." 

"Disgrace!"  echoed  the  young  girl,  shrinking  back 
appalled  and  aghast. 

"Yes,  disgrace !"  repeated  the  lady,  ruthlessly.  "You 
call  yourself  the  widow  of  William  Douglas.  You  are 
no  such  respectable  person.  You  could  not  be  his 
widow,  for  you  have  never  even  been  his  wife.  You 
are  but  a  lost  and  ruined  creature  whose  very  presence 
pollutes  the  house  that  shelters  you." 

With  a  sharp  cry  Eglantine  sank  down  with  her  face 
to  the  feet  of  the  old  lady,  who  spurned  her  away,  and 
cruelly  continued: 

"That  wicked  and  foolish  form  of  marriage  between 
you  and  your  lover  was  not  worth  a  straw.  You  and 
your  partner  in  sin  and  folly  were  both  minors,  and 
could  not  have  been  lawfully  married  in  England,  with 
out  the  consent  of  your  guardians.  That  miserable  old 
idiot,  your  tutor,  must  have  remembered  this  fact,  had 
he  not  been,  as  he  was,  in  his  dotage.  You  see  now  to 
what  your  disobedience  has  reduced  you." 

"Oh,  my  mother!  Oh,  my  mother!"  moaned  the 
humbled  and  heartbroken  girl,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  rocking  her  form  backward  and  for 
ward,  "Oh,  my  mother,  look  down  from  heaven  in  pity 
on  your  poor  child." 

"How  dare  you  breathe  your  mother's  name?  She 
was  an  honorable  and  honored  matron.  And  now  tell 
me,  Lady  Linlithgow,  knowing  yourself  to  be  what  you 
are,  how  could  you  presume  to  accept  the  marriage  pro 
posals  of  the  Earl  of  Ornoch?"  inquired  the  marchion 
ess,  with  cold  malignity. 

"I  didn't  know,"  wept  the  poor  child.  "I  thought  f 
had  been  lawfully  married!  I  am  sure  I  meant  to  have 
been,  and  so  did  Willie.  An  dso  did  my  old  tutor," 


THE  LOST  HEIR  27 

she  added,  a  little  incoherently.  "And  when  my  poor, 
dear,  dear  Willie  was  killed,  I  felt  as  if  his  death  was 
a  judgment  on  me  for  my  disobedience." 

"And  so  of  course  it  was.  But  go  on.  Tell  me  how, 
knowing  what  you  knew,  you  dared  to  accept  the  pro 
posals  of  Lord  Ornoch?" 

"I  didn't  wish  to  do  so.  Heaven  knows  I  did  not! 
But  you  all  urged  me  so.  I  thought  I  was  a  widow, 
indeed  I  did.  I  thought  it  was  my  duty  to  make  what 
reparation  I  could  for  my  fatal  disobedience,  and  to 
give  up  my  own  will  to  yours.  I  did  wish  to  confess 
my  marriage." 

"Your  marriage!"  sneered  the  lady,  with  ineffable 
scorn. 

"But  I  was  afraid  to  do  so,  indeed  I  was,  Aunt  Shet 
land.  O,  pardon  me!  Spare  me!  I  have  no  one  but 
you,  aunt,"  she  pleaded,  pathetically,  clinging  to  the 
skirts  of  the  lady. 

"Keep  your  hands  from  my  dress,  you  wretched  crea 
ture!  And  never  dare  to  call  me  'aunt'  again.  But 
now  tell  me  at  once,  what  motive  has  moved  you,  at 
this  late  moment,  to  make  this  shameful  confession?" 

"Oh,  Aunt  Shetland " 

"Again !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon !  I  forgot.  Oh,  Lady  Shetland, 
I  was  so  ignorant.  I  did  not  know  till  very  lately. 
But  now  I  have  found  out  something.  Before  this  week 
I  did  not  dream  of  such  a  misfortune;  but  this  week 
I  thought — I  feared ;  but  still  I  was  not  sure — not  sure 
until  this  morning,  when  I  told  Elspeth  all  about  it, 
and  then  I  asked  her  if  it  was  so,  and  she  told  me,  'Yes, 
it  was,'  "  sobbed  Eglantine. 

"What  an  incoherent  mass  of  folly  and  wickedness 
you  have  uttered!  What  do  you  mean?  What  is  it 
you  feared,  but  did  not  know  until  to-day?  What  has 
Elspeth  told  you?" 

"Oh,  aunt — I  beg  your  pardon — Lady  Shetland,  can 
you  not — not  surmise " 

"I  can  guess  no  shameful  secrets!  You  must  tell 
me,"  said  the  lady,  vindictively. 

"Oh,  madam,  I  have  been  a  wife,  or  thought  myself 


28  THE  LOST  HEIR 

one,  and — and — oh,  pity  me!  I  canont  tell  you;  pity 
me!"  prayed  the  girl,  groveling  at  the  feet  of  her  re 
lentless  judge. 

"I  will  pity  you  so  much  as  this,  that  within  an 
hour  your  intended  bridegroom  shall  hear  of  your  fall, 
and  within  a  day  this  house  shall  be  rid  of  your  pres 
ence,"  replied  the  lady,  in  a  hard,  grating,  bitter  tone, 
as  she  spurned  the  kneeling  form  with  her  foot,  and 
arose  to  leave  the  room. 

"And  hark  you,  Lady  Linlithgow,"  she  added,  sneer- 
ingly,  "you  are  still  a  minor,  still  a  ward.  And  you 
will  understand  that  you  are  a  prisoner  in  this  apart 
ment,  forbidden  to  speak  to  any  one  except  myself,  or 
such  domestic  as  I  shall  appoint  to  attend  you,  while 
you  remain  in  this  house." 

If  this  last  thrust  was  meant  to  wound,  it  missed  its 
mark.  Poor  Eglantine  was  but  too  well  satisfied  to  be 
left  alone,  and  relieved  from  the  pain  of  seeing  any  one. 

The  marchioness  arose  and  left  the  chamber. 

At  the  door  she  met  a  bevy  of  bridesmaids  beauti 
fully  dressed,  who  had  come,  by  the  previous  arrange 
ment  to  "report"  for  their  graceful  duty. 

"Go  away,  my  loves.  Lady  Linlithgow  is  ill,  very  ill, 
too  ill  to  see  you,"  said  the  marchioness,  closing  and 
locking  the  chamber  door  after  her,  and  then  facing  the 
frightened  maidens. 

"111!"  echoed  two  or  three  in  a  breath. 

"My  dears,  quiet  yourselves  and  attend  to  me.  Lady 
Linlithgow  is  extremely  ill.  She  has  been  ailing  for  a 
week  past,  but  we  thought  nothing  of  her  indisposition. 
Last  night,  however,  her  malady  declared  itself  to  be  a 
fever.  This  morning  she  is  dangerously  ill.  The  fever 
may  be  fatal,  may  be  contagious;  we  cannot  tell  until 
the  doctor  comes." 

"Good  Heavens,  how  shocking!  Fever!  contagion!" 
echoed  the  terrified  girls,  preparing  to  disperse  to  their 
own  rooms. 

Lady  Shetland  meanwhile  passed  down  the  hall,  and 
descended  the  stairs.  She  went  into  the  library,  where 
she  knew  she  would  find  the  marquis. 

He  was  walking  restlessly  up  and  down  the  floor,  but 


THE  LOST  HEIR  29 

stopped  and  turned  around  to  face  his  wife  as  she  en 
tered. 

"Is  not  Eglantine  ready  yet?  Everybody  else  is  kept 
waiting.  It  is  high  time  we  were  in  the  chapel.  We 
shall  have  scarcely  half  an  hour  for  the  breakfast.  And 
even  then  they  may  miss  the  train,"  he  said,  impa 
tiently. 

"Sit  down,  my  lord;  I  have  something  to  tell  you," 
said  the  marchioness,  locking  the  library  door  to  pre 
vent  interruption,  seating  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  sig 
naling  the  marquis  to  follow  her  example. 

"Sit  down!  Lord  bless  my  soul  alive!  there  is  no 
time  for  sitting.  We  should  be  in  the  chapel  now." 

"My  lord,  we  shall  not  go  to  the  chapel." 

"Eh?" 

"Eglantine  is  ill,  seriously — dangerously — it  may  be 
fatally  so.  The  marriage  ceremony  cannot  be  performed 
to-day,"  said  the  marchioness,  decisively. 

"Eh?"  exclaimed  the  marquis,  staring  incredulously. 

"The  marriage  cannot  go  on  to-day.  Eglantine  is  too 
ill  to  leave  her  room." 

"What  ails  the  girl?" 

"A  fever  of  some  sort — a  contagious  fever,  as  likely 
as  not!  She  has  been  sickening  for  it  all  the  week, 
as  you  may  have  seen,  although  we  made  light  of  it. 
Now  she  is  extremely  ill." 

"What  the  devil  is  to  be  done? — and  the  house  full 
of  wedding  guests !"  exclaimed  the  marquis,  seizing  his 
own  gray  hair. 

"That  is  what  I  came  to  talk  about.  You  must  go 
Into  the  drawing-room,  and  announce  the  illness  of  the 
bride-elect,  and  the  consequent  postponement  of  the 
marriage,  and  make  our  excuses  to  our  guests  as  best 
you  may!" 


30  THE  LOST  HEIK 

CHAPTER    IV. 

DARK    DOINGS. 

It  was  late  in  the  short  winter  afternoon  when  Lady 
Shetland  unlocked  the  door  and  entered  the  chamber  of 
Eglantine. 

She  found  the  poor  girl  ill,  really  ill,  so  ill  as  to  re 
deem  from  all  prevarications  the  assertions  and  expla 
nations  offered  by  her  aunt  to  her  family  and  friends. 

She  was  still  lying  on  the  carpet,  where  she  had  sunk 
down  hours  before.  She  was  shaking  as  with  an  ague 
fit,  and  her  hands  and  feet  were  as  cold  as  ice,  while 
yet  her  face  was  deeply  flushed  and  her  eyes  wildly 
bright  as  with  inward  fever. 

Lady  Shetland  sharply  rang  the  bell,  that  quickly 
brought  Elspeth  to  the  room. 

"Raise  your  young  lady,  undress  her  and  put  her  to 
bed,"  was  the  prompt  order  given  by  the  marchioness 
to  the  attendant. 

"Ou,  wae's  ma,  my  leddy!"  cried  Elspeth,  as  she 
kneeled  down  beside  her  charge.  "She's  unco  ill! 
Hadna  we  better  send  for  the  doctor  at  once?" 

"No,"  curtly  answered  the  marchioness. 

"Nay,  my  leddy,  ye  maun  pardon  me,  but  I  think— 

"You  are  not  to  think,  but  to  obey.  Put  your  young 
lady  comfortably  to  bed,"  sternly  repeated  the  mar 
chioness. 

Poor  Elspeth  obeyed  orders  so  far  as  to  disrobe  her 
"bairn"  and  lay  her  in  her  luxurious  nest;  but  as  to 
putting  her  comfortably  anywhere,  that  was  impossible. 

Eglantine  lay,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  parched  lips, 
rolling  her  eyes  and  tossing  her  arms  in  wild  delirium. 

"Deed,  my  leddy,  the  doctor  maun  be  fetched," 
pleaded  Elspeth. 

"Hold  your  impertinent  tongue,  or  leave  the  room," 
commanded  the  lady. 

"But  ou,  waes  me,  me  leddy,"  persisted  Elspeth, 
frightened,  but  resolute,  "an'  she  was  to  dee?" 

"It  would  be  the  best  thing  that  she  could  do,  I 


THE  LOST  HEIR  31 

think,"  sharply  answered  Lady  Shetland.  "And  now, 
hush  or  go." 

Poor  Elspeth  preferred  to  "hush."  She  got  some 
cold  water  in  a  bowl  and  a  bit  of  fine  sponge  and  sat 
down  by  the  bedside  and  began  to  bathe  the  burning 
brow  of  her  unfortunate  charge. 

Lady  Shetland  sat  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed 
to  watch  and  to  think.  Eglantine  was  quite  as  bad  as 
Elspeth  had  declared  her  to  be.  She  might  die.  And, 
though  Lady  Shetland  had  declared  in  her  anger  that 
"it  would  be  the  best  thing  she  could  do,"  and  though 
it  might  be  so,  for  Eglantine's  own  peace,  yet  it  cer 
tainly  would  not  be  so  for  her  relations'  interests. 

If  the  girl  were  to  die  now,  her  colossal  fortune 
would  be  lost  to  Lord  Ornoch.  If  she  were  to  die  also 
without  medical  attendance,  a  great  reproach  for  un 
pardonable  neglect,  if  nothing  worse,  would  fall  upon 
her  guardians. 

When  Lady  Shetland  had  talked  of  calling  in  Dr. 
McGill,  she  had  really  no  intention  of  doing  so ;  for  she 
could  not  even  have  known,  then,  that  Eglantine  would 
need  his  services.  Even  when  she  found  the  unhappy 
girl  in  the  delirium  of  high  fever,  and  when  old  Elspeth 
proposed  to  send  for  the  doctor,  her  own  first  impulse, 
promptly  acted  upon,  had  been  to  refuse. 

Now,  however,  as  she  sat  and  watched  the  wildly 
tossing  form  and  rolling  eyes  of  the  fevered  and  de 
lirious  girl,  she  grew  terrified  as  she  perceived  that 
medical  aid  was  here  indispensable. 

She  must  call  in  a  doctor,  but  not  McGill.  He  be 
longed  to  the  neighborhood.  He  was  the  greatest  gos 
sip  living.  He  would,  in  attending  Eglantine,  find  out 
the  fatal  secret.  And,  though  bound  by  his  profes 
sional  oath  to  respect  the  secrets  of  families,  his  love 
of  tattle  would  inevitably  lead  him  to  let  this  one  leak 
out,  little  by  little,  until  all  the  worst  should  be  known 
or  surmised.  No,  not  McGill. 

Who  then?  There  was  no  other  doctor  within  twenty 
miles.  But  stop;  yes,  there  was  Dr.  Seton.  He  lived 
fifteen  miles  away,  at  the  village  of  Seton,  which  was 
five  miles  this  side  of  Eglantine's  estate  of  Seton  Court. 


32  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Dr.  Seton  certainly.  He  was  the  very  man. 

But  who  and  what  was  Dr.  Seton,  besides  being  the 
medical  practitioner  at  the  village  of  Seton? 

Reader,  every  family,  however  noble,  or  even  prince 
ly,  has  its  following  or  poor  relations — some  ''poor,  but 
honest ;"  some  others  "poor,  but" — otherwise  than  hon 
est.  To  which  set  Dr.  David  Seton  belonged  you  will 
soon  discover.  He  was  a  distant  relation  to  the  Setons 
of  Linlithgow — so  distant  that  no  one  on  earth  but  a 
Scotchman  could  have  traced  out  the  relationship.  He 
had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  village  of  Seton; 
had  studied  medicine  and  obtained  his  diploma  in  the 
city  of  Edinburgh,  and  had  returned  to  commence  prac 
tice  in  his  native  place.  He  was  a  learned  and  skillful 
physician,  and  could  have  done  better  in  a  larger  town, 
no  doubt;  but  then  he  was  a  " Seton,"  and  in  the  village 
of  Seton  he  was  regarded  with  all  the  honor  that  ac 
crued  to  the  old  name. 

Like  most  of  us,  he  was  a  mixture  of  good  and  evil. 
One  of  his  good  elements  was  his  loyalty  to  "the  head 
of  his  house,"  as  he  always  termed  the  one  Seton  who 
happened  to  be  Baron  Linlithgow.  Now,  however,  the 
"head  of  his  house"  happened  to  be  a  "she-chief"  and  a 
Baroness  Linlithgow.  The  barony  had  fallen  to  the 
distaff!  but  the  loyalty  of  David  Seton  had  not  fallen 
anywhere.  He  revered  the  young  baroness  as  he  had 
revered  the  baron  her  father  and  all  the  barons  her 
forefathers.  Also  he  had  known  and  attended  Eglan 
tine  in  her  infancy  and  childhood,  before  the  great 
calamity  of  her  father's  early  death  had  made  her  a 
baroness  in  her  own  right.  And  now  he  would  keep  her 
secrets,  from  personal  regard,  from  family  pride,  as 
well  as  from  professional  integrity. 

Yes;  David  Seton  was  the  man  to  call  in.  He  had 
never  attended  the  family  at  Trosach  Castle;  but  the 
marchioness  knew  that  he  would  feel  only  too  much 
honored  to  be  invited  to  do  so. 

So  Dr.  Seton  was  sent  for,  and  answered  promptly. 

He  "considered  the  case  serious,"  as  he  expressed 
it,  and  deemed  it  expedient  to  place  his  own  practice  in 
the  hands  of  his  assistant,  Mi1.  Christopher  Kinloch,  in 


THE  LOST  HEIR  33 

order  that  he  might  devote  all  his  energies  to  his  new 
patient. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  certain  dark  sus 
picions  crossed  the  doctor's  mind,  but  they  were  put 
aside  as  too  horrible  to  be  entertained.  The  doctor 
watched  his  patient,  and  Lady  Shetland  watched  him. 
She  soon  saw  that  he  suspected  the  condition  of  Eglan 
tine — that  he  was  heavily  oppressed  with  the  weight  of 
the  secret,  and  deeply  exercised  on  the  subject  of  his 
own  responsibility.  Whenever  she  made  particular  in 
quiries  about  his  patient  he  became  very  much  agitated. 
Lady  Shetland  almost  enjoyed  his  mental  agonies. 

At  length  it  seemed  that  the  doctor  had  screwed  his 
"courage  to  the  sticking  place,"  and  resolved  to  do  his 
dreadful  duty,  and  make  that  fatal  revelation  to  Lady 
Shetland,  which  he  could  not  know  would  be  no  new 
revelation  at  all  to  her.  He  solemnly  wrote  a  note  re 
questing  an  interview  with  Lady  Shetland  upon  very 
important  affairs. 

The  marchioness,  who  knew  what  was  coming,  sent 
him  a  verbal  message  to  come  to  her  in  the  library, 
whither  she  went  to  meet  him. 

He  soon  came  in. 

"My  lady,"  he  said,  as  he  stood  before  her,  trembling 
with  emotion,  "I  have  a  most  agonizing  dutv  to 
do " 

"Sit  down,  Dr.  Seton,"  said  the  marchioness,  point 
ing  to  a  chair. 

He  was  scarcely  able  to  stand,  so  he  sank  into  the 
offered  seat. 

"Now  compose  yourself,  and  explain  your  meaning." 

"Madame,  I  have  that  to  tell  you  which,  had  one 
risen  from  the  dead  to  tell  me,  I  would  not  have  be 
lieved  it.  Nay,  had  an  angel  come  down  from  heaven  to 
tell  me,  I  would  not  have  believed  it,  Lady  Shetland. 
How  shall  I  tell  you  the  treadful  discovery  I  have 
made?" 

"You  need  not  tell  me  at  all.  I  know  all  about  it," 
coolly  remarked  the  lady. 

The  doctor  looked  up  surprised  and  incredulous.  He 
could  not  believe  that  she  knew  what  he  meant 


34  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"You  mean  that  there  is  likely  to  be  a  blot  on  the 
stainless  escutcheon  of  the  Setons,"  she  added. 

The  doctor  looked  shocked  that  she  should  speak  of 
this  so  coolly ;  his  red  face  flushed  to  a  deeper  red ;  but 
then  he  remembered  that  Lady  Shetland  was  not  a 
Seton,  and  he  answered,  slowly : 

"You  know  this,  then,  madam?" 

"I  have  known  it  for  some  time;  I  was  only  curious 
to  see  how  long  it  would  take  you  to  discover  it.  Now 
you  understand  why  it  was  that  I  troubled  you  to 
come  so  far,  instead  of  calling  in  McGill,  who  is  close 
by.  I  knew  we  could  trust  you ;  I  knew  your  deep  re 
gard  for  the  family  honor 

"'The  family  honor?'  The  family  honor  is  gane," 
said  the  doctor,  falling  into  the  dialect,  as  was  usual 
with  him  when  deeply  touched — "gane,  gane,  gane! 
rent  to  bits  by  the  lightness  of  a  lass." 

"I  don't  think  you  will  say  so  when  you  hear  all," 
said  the  lady. 

The  doctor  lifted  his  head  with  a  look  of  forlorn  hope 
in  his  eyes. 

The  marchioness  then  told  him  the  whole  sorrowful 
story  of  Eglantine's  concealed  marriage  and  calamitous 
widowhood. 

"Thank  heaven!  Fm  glad  it  was  na  worse,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  sigh  of  infinite  relief. 

"Worse?  I  scarcely  know  how  it  could  have  been 
worse  for  her.  The  marriage  was  illegal,"  said  the 
lady. 

"Sae  it  was — sae  it  was !  But  the  lassie  meant  weel. 
She  was  nae  light  o'  luve.  I'm  glad  ye  didna  call  in 
Sandy  McGill.  He's  a  leaky  vessel.  And  nae  use  to 
expose  family  secrets  even  to  your  family  doctor,  when 
ye  hae  a  doctor  in  the  family. 

Lady  Shetland  winced.  She  felt  no  disposition  to  in 
clude  this  country  practitioner,  this  far-off  cousin  of 
the  Setons  of  Linlithgow,  in  her  family  circle;  but  she 
felt  that  she  must  not  offend  himv  and  so  she  did  not 
repel  his  claim. 

"Our  greatest  difficulty  will  be "  she  began;  and 

then  she  hesitated,  too  much  embarrassed  by  the  sub- 


THE  LOST  HEIR  35 

ject  to  explain  herself  eren  to  this  old  doctor,  who 
claimed  her  confidence  as  a  member  of  the  family. 

He  came  quickly  to  her  aid  by  saying: 

"Yes,  yes,  your  ladyship,  I  ken.  I  comprehend.  The 
affair  maun  be  kept  still  amang  oursel's ;  and  the  babe, 
if  it  comes  alive  into  the  world,  maun  be  secretly  pro 
vided  for." 

"Yes." 

"I  think  I  can  pit  my  hand  on  the  woman  that  will 
answer  our  purpose — for  a  price." 

"Offer  her  any  price!  Come,  I  will  put  a  thousand 
pounds  in  your  hands  to  use  as  you  deem  best,  so  that 
the  secret  is  well  kept." 

"Trust  to  me,  your  ladyship.  All  shall  be  in  train 
for  the  coming  event." 

"And  remember,  Dr.  Seton,  there  is  no  one  but  your 
self,  myself,  Eglantine  and  Nurse  Elspeth  that  even 
suspects  this  secret." 

"And  no  one  shall  suspect  it  from  me,  not  even  the 
woman  whom  I  shall  engage  to  take  charge  of  the 
babe." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Her  name  is  Magdalen  Hurst." 

"Where  does  she  live?" 

"She  is  staying  at  Kilford  at  present;  but  her  home, 
when  she  has  a  home,  is  in  London." 

"So  much  the  better;  the  farther  off  the  fitter.  But 
what  is  she,  and  what  brings  her  to  this  part  of  the 
world?" 

"She  was  the  stewardess  of  one  of  our  small  coasting 
steamers,  the  Shaft.  The  last  time  the  Shaft  stopped  at 
our  little  port,  she  left  there  her  stewardess,  who  was 
too  ill  with  pleurisy  to  go  farther  on  the  voyage.  Be 
fore  the  woman  was  even  out  of  danger  navigation 
closed  in  these  waters,  and  the  Shaft  was  laid  up  at 
London  for  the  winter." 

"And  meantime  you  attended  the  woman,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"Ou,  ay;  a  matter  of  humanity,  not  money." 

"Of  course.    What  more?" 

"The  woman  has  been  married,  she  told  me,  some- 


36  THE  LOST  HEIR 

thing  less  than  a  year.  Her  husband  is  a  laborer  on 
the  London  docks,  too  poor  to  leave  his  work  or  raise 
the  money  to  come  to  his  wife,  whose  case  is  made 
worse  by  the  circumstance  that  she  is  soon  likely  to 
become  a  mother,  puir  creature.  She  talks  of  staying 
at  Killford  until  after  the  birth  of  her  child,  and  of 
returning  to  London  by  the  spring  trip  of  the  Shaft, 
which  is  usually  made  early  in  March.  She  will  be  the 
very  person  to  relieve  you  of  your  responsibility." 

"The  very  person !"  echoed  the  lady ;  "and  a  few  hun 
dred  pounds  would  not  come  amiss  to  her,  I  presume." 
"Na,  that  it  will  no,"  assented  the  doctor. 
Many  more  details  of  their  plan  were  arranged  be 
tween  the  lady  and  the  doctor,  that  need  not  be  re 
peated  here. 

Eglantine's  illness  was  protracted,  and  her  brain- 
fever  alternated  between  delirium  and  stupor. 

•  The  young  Earl  of  Ornoch  came  every  day  to  inquire 
about  the  condition  of  his  betrothed  bride,  as  he  still 
called  her.  And  sometimes  when  it  was  deemed  per 
fectly  safe  to  admit  him  to  her  chamber,  when,  for  in 
stance,  she  was  lying  in  a  dead  stupor,  he  would  be  per 
mitted  to  stand  at  her  bedside  and  gaze  on  her  flushed 
face  and  motionless  form. 

His  mother,  Lady  Ornoch,  and  his  sister,  Lady  Kath- 
erine  Moray,  also  frequently  called,  and  under  similar 
conditions,  were  admitted  to  see  the  invalid. 

At  length,  however,  the  crisis  passed  favorably;  the 
patient  was  declared  to  be  out  of  danger,  and  conva 
lescence  set  in. 

Then  the  doctor  returned  to  Seton — having  promised 
to  visit  his  patient  on  every  alternate  day,  and  to  hold 
himself  in  readiness  to  hasten  to  her,  at  a  moment's 
warning,  if  summoned,  in  the  event  of  any  occurrence 
that  should  require  his  attendance,  on  any  intervening 
day. 

Then  also  the  young  Earl  of  Ornoch  yielded  to  the 
persuasion  of  his  friends,  and  consented  to  set  out 
upon  his  foreign  mission. 

He  pleaded  earnestly  for  a  parting  interview  with  his 
betrothed,  but  was  overruled  by  the  arguments  of  the 


THE  LOST  HEIK  37 

marchioness  and  the  doctor,  both  of  whom  assured  him 
that  the  condition  of  the  convalescent  was  still  so  pre 
carious  as  to  render  any  excitement,  even  the  agreeable 
one  of  his  visit,  very  prejudicial  to  her  chances  of  ulti 
mate  recovery. 

And  so  doubly  disappointed,  of  his  bride  and  his  in 
terview,  the  young  earl  set  out  for  the  Continent,  ac 
companied  by  his  mother  and  sister,  who  went  with 
him,  partly  to  console  him  for  what  they  considered 
only  the  temporary  loss  of  his  promised  wife,  and  part 
ly  to  amuse  themselves  at  the  gay  Austrian  capital. 

A  week  later,  on  the  meeting  of  Parliament  on  the 
first  of  February,  the  Marquis  of  Shetland  went  up  to 
London  for  the  season. 

Lady  Shetland,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  accom 
pany  her  lord,  decided  on  this  occasion  to  remain  at 
Ornoch  Castle,  pleading  the  lingering  convalescence  of 
her  niece  as  her  excuse.  And  the  marquis  willingly 
agreed  to  this  arrangement. 

Lady  Shetland  felt  very  much  relieved  by  the  depar 
ture  of  her  husband  and  her  relatives.  She  had  the 
house  to  herself.  She  had  the  neighborhood  to  herself. 
She  was  free  to  execute  her  projects  unwatched  and 
unsuspected.  She  could  now  forever  conceal  the  fatal 
family  secret.  It  would  be  some  months  before  the  re 
turn  of  any  one  of  the  absentees,  and  by  that  time  all 
should  be  over  and  hidden. 

Eglantine's  convalescence  rapidly  progressed ;  but 
even  when  she  was  quite  able  to  walk  about  the  house, 
she  was  still,  on  the  plea  of  her  health,  kept  a  close 
prisoner  in  her  room.  She  had  grown  very  quiet  in  all 
her  ways,  very  patient  of  restraint,  very  grateful  for 
protection,  and  very  docile  to  the  will  of  her  aunt. 

The  doctor  came  now  but  twice  a  week,  but  still  held 
himself  in  readiness  to  answer  any  sudden  call  to  the 
castle,  whether  it  should  come  by  day  or  by  night. 

He  told  Lady  Shetland  that  he  had  made  arrange 
ments  with  Magdalen  Hurst  to  receive  the  expected 
little  stranger,  who,  he  represented  to  the  woman, 
would  be  the  child  of  a  young  wife,  residing  in  Stirling, 
and  too  sickly  to  nurse  her  own  infant. 


38  THE  LOST  HEIR 

One  day  the  doctor  came  to  the  castle  with  other 
news,  with  which  he  was  so  excited  as  to  drop  at  once 
into  dialect. 

"Hae  ye  seen  the  Times  the  morn,  my  leddy?"  he 
inquired,  as  soon  as  he  met  the  marchioness  in  the  li 
brary. 

"No;  why?" 

''Then  your  leddyship  will  no  hae  seen  the  guid  for 
tune  that  wad  hae  befallen  our  freend,  Willie  Douglas, 
if  he  had  na  been  massacreed  by  the  savages?" 

"No;  what  was  it?"  inquired  the  lady,  with  growing 
interest. 

"Na  less  than  heir  presumptive  to  the  titles  and  es 
tates  of  the  auld  Duke  of  Cheviot." 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  the  marchioness,  surprised  out 
of  her  self-possession.  "Then  what  has  happened  to 
the  heir-apparent?" 

"Death,  na  less.  The  Earl  of  Wellrose  died  three 
days  since  of  congestion  of  the  brain — overwork !  Ye 
ken  that  since  the  crash  came  he  has  supported  his  fa 
ther  by  writing  for  the  daily  papers.  Puir  laddie!  it  is 
an  unco  pity  he  could  na  live  to  come  into  his  ain;  for 
ye  ken,  my  leddy,  that  it  was  only  his  life  interest  in 
Cheviot  Court  that  the  auld  Duke  sold  to  the  usurers; 
it  wae  hae  returned  to  the  heir  at  his  death." 

"I  know.  I  feel  very  sorry  for  the  poor  young  man; 
for,  as  you  say,  he  was  a  good  son;  but,  doubtless,  he 
has  come  into  an  infinitely  better  inheritance  than  any 
this  earth  could  afford  him,"  said  the  lady,  speaking  as 
piously  as  if  she  had  been  a  saint  instead  of  a  sinner. 

"Ay,  ay,  that  he  has,"  responded  the  doctor. 

"The  old  father  is  the  most  to  be  pitied,  I  think,  for 
he  has  lost  his  only  son  and  his  only  support." 

"Ay,  ay,  that  he  has.  But  he  will  na  live  long  noo. 
Ye  ken,  my  leddy,  that  everybody  thought  the  Duke 
was  living  on  the  Continent." 

"Yes;  was  he  not  so?" 

"Nae;  the  sudden  death  of  his  son  brought  out  the 
whole  truth.  The  auld  Duke,  ashamed  of  his  deep  fall 
into  poverty,  lived  in  humble  lodgings  in  Wellington 
street,  Strand,  attended  by  his  youngest  and  only  sur- 


THE  LOST  HEIE  39 

viving  daughter,  Lady  Margaret,  where  they  were 
known  only  as  Mr.  and  Miss  Jones,  and  where  no  one 
suspected  their  identity." 

"Poor  old  man!  what  will  he  do,  now  that  his  son 
is  gone?" 

"Oh,  he  will  do  weel  enough  as  to  means.  Freends. 
hae  found  him  out  noo,  and  force  him  to  accept  assist 
ance  that  he  is  na  longer  able  to  refuse.  He  lies  danger 
ously  ill  from  the  shock  of  his  son's  death.  But  ye'll 
read  it  a'  there  in  the  Times.  There's  a  full  column  and 
a  half  devoted  to  the  story." 

"I  must  read  it,"  said  the  marchioness. 

"But  what  I'm  thinking  of  is  the  windfa'  that  wad 
sune  hae  befa'n  our  freend  Willie  Douglas,  had  the  lad 
lived  to  receive  it.  Why,  if  he  were  living  noo,  in  a 
few  months  from  this,  at  most,  he  wad  be  the  Duke  of 
Cheviot,  and  in  possession  of  the  reverted  estates." 

"Yes,  he  certainly  would." 

"And  that  wad  make  an  unco  difference  in  our  esti 
mate  of  his  marriage  with  our  Eglantine,  would  it  no? 
We'd  ay  rather  have  her  a  duchess  than  a  countess, 
would  we  no?" 

"Well,  but  young  Douglas  is  dead ;  so  it  is  quite  vain 
to  speculate  as  to  what  might  have  been,"  quickly  re 
plied  the  marchioness,  for  she  did  not  in  the  least  de 
gree  sympathize  with  Dr.  Seton's  aspiration  for  the 
young  lady's  advancement.  She  coveted  the  wealth  of 
the  "combination  heiress"  for  the  benefit  of  her 
nephew,  Lord  Ornoch. 

So  Dr.  Seton,  feeling  himself  snubbed  by  Lady  Shet 
land,  arose  and  went  upstairs  to  pay  his  usual  visit  to 
his  patient,  and  soon  afterward  he  left  the  house. 

A  letter  came  from  Lord  Ornoch  to  Lady  Shetland, 
inclosing  one  to  the  young  Lady  Linlithgow. 

The  marchioness  held  the  inclosed  letter  in  her  hand 
some  moments,  debating  whether  she  should  give  it  to 
Eglantine  or  not. 

Since  the  interrupted  wedding,  the  name  of  the  dis 
appointed  bridegroom  had  not  been  mentioned  once  be 
tween  the  marchioness  and  her  niece.  And  with  all  her 
pride  and  self-possession,  Lady  Shetland  shrank  from 


40  THE  LOST  HEIR 

bringing  up  the  subject  of  the  Earl  to  Eglantine.  But 
she  could  not  prudently  suppress  his  letter,  for  more 
letters  would  surely  come,  and  though  one  might  be 
supposed  to  be  lost,  if  missing,  yet  if  she  should  sup 
press  all,  her  hand  in  the  matter  would  certainly  be  dis 
covered.  She  decided  to  take  the  letter  up  to  her  niece. 

She  entered  the  chamber  where  the  young  creature 
«at,  wrapped  in  a  white  flannel  dressing-gown  and  re 
clining  in  a  resting-chair,  and  looking  unusually  pale 
and  ill. 

Lady  Shetland  seated  herself,  and  laid  the  letter  be 
fore  her  niece. 

Eglantine  took  it  up,  stared  as  she  recognized  the 
hand-writing,  and  said: 

"Oh,  aunt !  you  have  not  told  him ;  or  he  never,  never 
would  have  written  to  me." 

"No,  Eglantine,  I  have  not  told  him.  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  tell  him,  or  any  one  else.  No  one  out 
side  this  room  knows  your  secret,  except  Elspeth  and 
the  doctor.  And  no  one  else  must  know  it.  After  your 
great  fault,  which  has  brought  so  much  trouble  on  your 
self  and  me,  the  least  you  can  do  is  to  have  sufficient 
regard  for  the  honor  of  the  family  to  keep  your  secret." 

"I  will  do  anything  I  can  to  atone  for  my  error,  aunt; 
but  Lord  Ornoch!  I  did  not  love  him  except  as  a 
friend,  but  I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  him." 

"Nor  shall  you  deceive  him  in  the  end.  But  just  now 
you  must  keep  the  secret  even  from  him.  And  now 
suppose  you  read  his  letter." 

Eglantine  opened  and  read  the  letter,  and  her  color 
came  and  went  as  her  eyes  traced  the  lines  filled  with 
expressions  of  devoted  love  and  boundless  faith. 

"Oh,  aunt!"  she  said,  "he  thinks  that  nothing  but 
my  brain  fever  interrupted  the  marriage ;  and  he  speaks 
of  this  marriage  as  something  yet  possible  and  desir 
able.  And  more  than  that,  he  speaks  of  it  as  certain; 
and  says  that  he  looks  forward  to  what  he  calls  the 
happy  day  that  is  to  unite  our  lives,  with  delight  and 
impatience!  Oh,  Aunt  Shetland!  it  would  be  base  in 
me  to  let  a  man  so  affectionate  and  confiding  go  on 
for  a  day  in  such  a  self-delusion !" 


THE  LOST  HEIR  41 

"Eglantine,  after  the  mess  you  have  made  of  your 
own  life,  you  had  better  leave  your  fate  in  my  hands.  I 
know  how  long  to  keep  the  secret,  and  when  and  to 
whom  to  reveal  it." 

"Well,  aunt,  I  must  obey  you  so  far  as  reserve  goes ; 
but  no  further.  I  can  take  no  active  part  in  deceiving 
Lord  Ornoch.  I  esteem  him  too  highly  for  that!  I 
cannot  answer  this,  Aunt  Shetland,"  said  Eglantine, 
laying  the  letter  down  on  the  little  stand  at  her  side. 

Now  if  there  was  reproach  in  the  young  lady's  words, 
there  was  also  comfort;  for  though  she  called  Lady 
Shetland's  course  "deception,"  she  also  said  that  she 
''esteemed"  Lord  Ornoch,  "esteemed  him  highly." 

And  Lady  Shetland's  hopes  were  raised  for  the  ulti 
mate  success  of  her  plans. 

"You  need  not  answer  it,  Eglantine.  You  need  not 
write  to  him  at  all,"  she  replied;  and  then,  noticing  how 
unusually  pale  and  ill  the  invalid  looked,  she  advised 
her  to  go  to  bed,  and  said  that  she  would  send  Elspeth 
to  attend  her. 

Lady  Shetland  then  left  the  room,  and  went  down 
into  the  library,  where  she  wrote  a  very  affectionate 
and  encouraging  letter  to  her  nephew,  acknowledging 
the  receipt  of  his  letters,  telling  him  that  Eglantine  was 
not  yet  well  enough  to  write,  and  giving  him  a  tender 
message  from  his  coveted  bride,  which  the  young  lady 
had  certainly  never  sent  him. 

She  had  nearly  completed  her  task,  when  she  was  in 
terrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Elspeth. 

"Well?"  inquired  the  lady,  looking  up. 

"If  you  please,  my  leddy,  I  think  the  doctor  had  bet 
ter  be  fetched  at  once,"  gravely  responded  the  nurse. 

"How?  You  don't  mean " 

"Ay,  I  do,  my  leddy." 

"Then  you  go  and  send  Scott Or  stop;  wait  a 

moment,"  said  the  marchioness,  taking  up  her  pen  and 
hastily  dashing  off  a  few  lines,  which  she  sealed  up  and 
directed  to  Dr.  Seton,  at  Seton. 

"Tell  Scot  to  mount  the  fleetest  horse,  and  take  this 
note  to  Dr.  Seton." 


42  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Ay,  my  leddy,"  answered  the  nurse,  as  she  left  the 
library. 

That  night,  just  as  the  doctor  had  swallowed  his  sec 
ond  tumbler  of  hot  whisky  punch,  and  composed  him 
self  comfortably  under  his  blankets  for  a  good  night's 
sleep,  came  the  message  with  a  note  from  Lady 
Shetland,  calling  him  in  haste  to  Castle  Trosach. 

AVith  a  few  irrepressible  oaths,  cursing  the  unseason- 
ableness  of  the  hour,  he  got  up  quickly,  wrapped  up 
warmly,  sprang  into  the  wagon  that  was  waiting,  and 
sped  over  the  frosty  hills. 

It  was  midnight  when  he  reached  the  castle.  The 
servants,  with  the  exception  of  one  hall  footman  and 
the  nurse,  had  retired  to  rest. 

Lady  Shetland  was  waiting  in  the  library  to  receive 
him. 

"Well,  my  leddy?"  he  inquired,  with  a  bow. 

"The  time  has  come.  Eglantine  is  in  extremity.  Is 
the  woman  you  spoke  of  prepared?" 

"Yes,  in  some  sort;  but  she  has  had  a  great  shock, 
poor  creature.  She  got  a  letter  from  London  telling  her 
of  the  death  of  her  husband,  killed  suddenly  by  some 
accident  on  the  docks.  The  shock  accelerated  her  tra 
vail  ;  but  only  by  a  few  days,  I  think.  She  has  a  male 
child,  now  five  days  old,  but  so  feeble  that  I  had  so 
little  hope  of  his  life  from  hour  to  hour  as  to  send  for 
our  minister,  and  have  him  baptized  at  once." 

"Quite  right.  Now  follow  me  to  Eglantine's  cham 
ber,"  said  the  lady,  rising  to  lead  the  way. 

All  night  long,  all  the  next  day,  and  half  the  next 
night,  Eglantine  was  in  such  extreme  danger  that  her 
attendants  thought  her  death  would  certainly  end  all 
their  difficulties. 

At  midnight  of  the  second  day,  the  doctor,  leaving  his 
patient  out  of  pain  and  peril,  but  in  a  state  of  extreme 
weakness  and  stupor,  got  into  his  wagon  and  started 
for  Killford,  taking  with  him  a  parcel  done  up  in  fine 
lawn  and  soft  flannel.  And  no  one  knew  the  nature  of 
that  parcel  except  Lady  Shetland.  Nurse  Elspeth,  and 
Dr.  Seton  himself. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  43 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  INFANT  OUTCAST. 

Through  the  whirling  snowstorm  that  darkened  that 
wild  March  midnight,  the  doctor  drove  his  tired  horse, 
trusting  less  to  his  own  faculties  than  to  the  beast's  in 
stinct  to  keep  the  right  road. 

He  passed  through  his  own  village  of  Seton,  where  all 
the  streets  were  empty  and  silent,  and  all  the  houses 
closed  and  dark,  and  he  turned  off  toward  the  north  and 
traveled  three  miesl  farther  to  the  little  fishing  hamlet 
of  Killford,  at  the  head  of  the  loch,  and  famous  for  its 
haddock. 

The  hamlet  was  as  still  and  dark  as  the  village  had 
been.  He  passed  through  its  one  long,  straggling  street 
that  faced  the  sea,  and  then  on  to  the  northern  outskirts 
of  the  place. 

It  was  four  o'clock  on  that  pitch-dark  March  morn 
ing  when,  guided  by  the  dull  red  light  from  its  little 
window,  he  drew  up  before  the  door  of  a  solitary  and 
miserable  hut. 

Knowing  that  his  horse  was  -too  weary  even  to  walk 
away,  he  left  him  standing  there,  and  went  and  opened 
the  door. 

It  admitted  him  at  once  into  a  very  wretched  room, 
dimly  lighted  by  the  gloomy  glow  of  a  green  wood-fire 
that  smouldered  on  the  hearth. 

On  a  low  stool  before  this  fire  crouched  an  aged 
woman,  with  her  head  bowed  on  her  hands  and  her 
elbows  resting  on  her  knees.  As  the  doctor  came  to 
ward  her  she  looked  up  and  nodded.  Then,  seeing  the 
flannel  bundle  he  bore  in  his  arms,  she  stared,  but  made 
no  remark. 

"Well,  Jean,"  said  the  doctor,  cheerfully,  "how  are 
we  to-night?" 

"I  dinna  ken,  ser.  Bad.  And  the  bairn  is  dead,  too; 
and  a  guid  thing  for  it,  puir,  miserable  little  lad!" 
sighed  the  old  woman,  in  all  the  despondency  and  bit 
terness  of  age  and  poverty. 


44  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Dead?  the  child  dead?  Well,  I  expected  it.  When 
did  it  die?" 

"Airly  the  morn,  sir." 

The  doctor  drew  forward  a  rickety  chair,  seated  him 
self  cautiously,  with  his  bundle  on  his  knee,  and  pon 
dered  deeply  for  a  few  moments.  Then  he  inquired : 

"Who  was  here  when  the  child  died?" 

"Ne'er  a  saul,  sir,  but  the  mither  and  me." 

"Who  has  been  here  since?" 

"Naebody,  sir.  Wha  would  be  likely  to  come  through 
sic  a  snaw?" 

"No  one,  certainly.  How  did  the  poor  creature  take 
the  death  of  her  child?" 

"She  dinna  ken  onything  about  it,  sir.  She  was  fast 
asleep  when  the  bairn  died.  And  when  she  waket  up 
she  cried  out  sae  for  the  dead  man  and  then  for  her 
bairn,  that  I  could  na  tell  her  the  bairn  was  dead.  I 
tauld  her  it  was  asleep,  and  that  I  mustn't  wake  it  up, 
and  she  mustn't  worry  herself  wid  it  till  she  had  taken 
her  drops,  and  sae  I  gave  her  the  laudanum  drops  you 
left  for  her;  and  she  fell  off  to  sleep  like  an  angel,  and 
hae  been  sleeping  ever  sin'." 

"You  acted  well  and  wisely.  And  so  no  one  but  your 
self  knows  that  the  child  is  dead?" 

"Naebody,  sir ;  not  even  its  ain  mither.  But  I  dreed 
the  time  when  she  will  wake,  and  call  for  her  bairn. 
Losing  her  gude  man,  and  now  losing  her  wee  bairn,  it 
would  kill  her,  doctor!"  whimpered  the  crone. 

"Certainly  it  would  kill  her,  Jean.  And  we  mustn't 
kill  her,  you  know." 

"But  how  will  I  pit  her  off  again,  doctor,  when  she 
wakes  and  ca's  for  her  bairn?" 

"See  here,"  said  the  doctor,  opening  the  soft  flannel 
wraps  that  enveloped  the  parcel  on  his  knees,  and  re 
vealing  the  form  of  a  newborn  infant — "see  here;  this  is 
a  child  she  was  engaged  to  nurse.  This  child  has  lost 
its  mother,  just  as  surely  as  that  mother  on  the  bed  has 
lost  her  child." 

"Eh!  dear,  puir  babe!"  said  the  woman,  gazing  upon 
the  sleeping  infant. 

"Now,  then,  while  the  woman  is  still  asleep,  you  must 


THE  LOST  HEIE  45 

undress  this  babe,  and  dress  it  in  a  suit  of  the  dead 
babe's  clothes.  You  understand?" 

"Eh!  yes,  sir. 

"And  then,  when  the  mother  wakes  and  calls  for  her 
child,  put  this  one  in  her  arms  and  say  nothing  about 
it.  She  will  think  it  is  her  own,  and  ask  no  questions. 
Do  you  hear?"  inquired  the  doctor,  seeing  that  the 
woman  hesitated. 

"Aye,  sir,  I  hear.  And  I  comprehend  that  the  new 
babe  will  satisfy  her  for  a  time;  but  when  she  finds  it's 
no  her  ain,  she'll  be  waur  than  ever." 

"She  need  never  find  it  out." 

"Eh,  sir?" 

"She  has  scarcely  seen  her  own  babe;  and  in  the  dark 
ness  of  this  room  she  has  scarcely  become  acquainted 
with  its  features.  This  living  child  is  of  the  same  sex 
as  the  other  one,  and  looks  not  unlike  it.  When  it  is 
dressed  in  the  other  one's  clothes,  and  laid  in  the  be 
reaved  mother's  arms,  she  will  never  know  the  differ 
ence.  Now  do  you  see  ?" 

"What  will  I  do  wi'  the  dead  bairn?  The  mither 
might  see  it,  or  some  o'  the  neebor  folk  might  drap  in 
and  find  it!  Eh,  dear!  what  will  I  do  wi'  the  dead 
bairn?"  sighed  the  woman,  in  all  the  imbecile  distress 
of  dotage. 

"Tut,  tut;  dress  the  dead  babe  in  the  finery  of  the 
living  one  and  give  it  to  me  to  take  away,  and  neither 
the  mother  nor  any  one  else  shall  ever  see  or  hear  of  it 
again,  or  suspect  that  it  ever  lived  and  died.  Now,  be 
quick  in  changing  the  clothes  of  the  children  before  the 
mother  wakes,"  said  the  doctor,  putting  Eglantine's 
infant  into  the  arms  of  the  crone. 

The  woman  obeyed  the  doctor  in  every  particular. 
And,  while  she  was  still  engaged  in  doing  his  will,  he 
approached  her,  and  whispered: 

"And  hard  ye,  Jean;  for  that  poor  young  creature's 
sake,  you  must  keep  the  secret  of  her  baby's  death,  and 
let  her  still  believe  that  the  living  one  is  her  own.  And 
listen  further,"  he  continued,  stooping  down  to  her  ear, 
"So  long  as  you  keep  that  secret  I  will  pay  you  a  pen 
sion  of  five  shillings  a  week,  and  give  you  the  use  of  this 


46  THE  LOST  HEIR 

cottage  and  garden  rent  free;  but  just  so  soon  as  you 
tell  it,  I  will  stop  your  pension  and  turn  you  out  of  the 
house.  Do  you  understand?" 

The  crone  understood  much  more  than  she  had  be 
fore.  Her  bleared  eyes  shone  like  smouldering  coals. 
She  nodded  her  head  quickly  several  times,  and  said : 

"I  understand  verra  wee',  doctor.  Dinna  fear  me. 
Ise  be  dumb  as  the  dead/' 

"All  right,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  buttoned  up 
his  overcoat,  turning  his  collar  well  up  around  his 
throat,  and  put  on  his  cap,  drawing  down  its  lapels  well 
over  his  jaws. 

%>Xow  give  me  that,"  he  said,  referring  to  the  parcel 
of  fine  baby  linen  the  woman  had  just  rolled  up.  He 
went  out  and  stowed  the  parcel  under  the  seat  of  his 
wagon,  and  then  came  back  and  lifted  the  tiny  corpse 
from  its  rude  cradle,  and,  with  a  final  whispered  cau 
tion  to  the  old  crone,  carried  it  out  of  the  house. 

The  doctor  was  a  childless  widower,  and  his  house 
was  kept  by  a  worthy  couple,  Cuthbert  Kinlock,  groom 
and  valet,  and  Ann  Kinlock,  cook  and  laundress;  they 
were  usually  addressed  by  the  doctor  as  "Cuddie"  and 
"Nannie."  They  had  one  son,  Christopher,  whom  the 
doctor  called  "Kit,"  and  who  had  found  so  much  favor 
in  his  eyes  that  he  was  bringing  him  up  to  his  own  pro 
fession,  much  to  the  disgust  of  his  neighbors,  who 
thought  that  a  lad  of  Kit  Kinlock's  humble  station  had 
no  right  to  such  advancement. 

Kit  was  the  only  one  astir  when  the  doctor  arrived 
with  his  burden,  and,  hastily  explaining  that  he  had 
brought  a  new  subject  for  post-mortem  examination,  he 
carried  the  little  form  within. 

The  post-mortem  examination  was,  of  course,  nothing 
but  an  excuse  for  bringing  the  body  of  the  babe  to  the 
house;  The  work,  therefore,  was  very  slight,  and  soon 
over.  Then  the  doctor  spread  a  white  cloth  over  the  lit 
tle  frame,  and, turning  to  his  pupil,  said: 

"I  have  a  patient  to  see  at  some  distance;  so  I  must 
leave  you  in  full  charge  here.  You  will  lock  up  the 
office  after  I  have  gone,  and  take  the  certificate  to  the 
parish  register;  and  then  see  Gray,  the  undertaker,  and 


THE  LOST  HEIR  47 

ask  him  to  come  here  this  afternoon  and  attend  to  this 
matter.  And  if  I  should  not  be  home  when  Gray  comes, 
you  will  take  my  place  and  arrange  with  him  for  me.  I 
give  you  full  powers,  and  will  pay  all  expenses." 

The  doctor  was  going  on  with  some  further  direc 
tions,  when  old  Kinlock,  who  had  been  roused  by  his 
son,  entered  to  announce  that,  according  to  orders,  a 
wason  was  at  the  door,  with  a  fresh  horse,  hired  from 
the  Seton  Arms. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  doctor;  "all  right."  And,  while 
putting  on  his  overcoat,  gloves  and  cap,  he  turned  to 
his  pupil  and  added: 

"You  will  keep  this  office  closed  under  lock  and  key 
until  Gray  comes.  Then  you  will  show  him  in  and  give 
him  his  instructions.  Do  you  mind?" 

"Yes,  sir ;  and  I  will  scrupulously  follow  all  your  di 
rections,"  answered  the  young  man,  as  he  attended  his 
preceptor  to  the  wagon. 

It  was  near  noon  when  the  physician  reached  Trosach 
Castle. 

He  was  shown  into  the  library,  where  Lady  Shetland 
was  awaiting  his  arrival. 

"How  is  your  patient?"  he  inquired,  after  respectful 
ly  greeting  the  marchioness. 

"She  has  not  spoken  one  word,  or  given  one  sign  of 
consciousness,  since  you  left  her,"  gravely  answered  the 
lady,  leading  the  way  to  the  sick  chamber. 

They  found  the  beautiful  invalid  lying  on  the  bed, 
still  and  white  as  an  effigy  on  a  tomb.  She  was  faith 
fully  watched  by  her  devoted  nurse,  who  sat  motionless 
at  her  side. 

The  doctor  felt  her  pulse,  and  lifted  her  eyelids,  and 
examined  the  pupils  of  her  eyes,  and  all  this  without 
awaking  her. 

"Oh,  she  will  get  over  this,  and  be  all  the  better  for  it 
when  she  awakes.  This  is  a  deep  restorative  sleep, 
from  which  she  will  awaken  much  refreshed,"  said  the 
doctor,  cheerfully,  when  he  had  completed  his  exami 
nation. 

"She  will?"  echoed  the  marchioness.  "Thank  Heaven 
for  that.  But  mind,  doctor,  when  she  does  awake — I 


48  THE  LOST  HEIR 

know  her  so  well ! — she  will  give  us  trouble  about  that 
child.   She  will  insist  upon  seeing  it." 

"You  can  easily  settle  her  on  that  subject.  The  child 
is  dead.  Tell  her  so.  She'll  cry  a  little  at  first,  but  she 
will  think  it  all  for  the  best,  under  the  circumstances. 
Tell  her  the  child  is  dead." 

"Dead?"  echoed  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  dread 
and  remorse — "dead?" 

"Yes,  my  leddy — dead!  Dead  to  her,"  he  added,  si 
lently,  to  his  own  conscience.  Then,  speaking  up,  he 
continued :  "The  body  is  lying  at  my  house  now,  and  it 
will  be  buried  to-morrow  as  the  child  of  one  of  my  poor 
patients." 

"Dead!"  repeated  the  marchioness,  covering  her  pale 
face  with  her  hands — "the  child  dead!  That,  indeed, 
would  be  something  to  be  very  thankful  for,  if — if — oh, 
Dr.  Seton!  I  dread  to  add  the  words — if  it  did  not  per 
ish  from  neglect  or  exposure,  or  from  being  taken  out 
so  far  through  the  snowstorm  last  night!" 

The  doctor  indulged  in  a  little  low  laugh  as  he  mut 
tered  : 

"Your  conscience  is  a  very  sensitive  one,  my  leddy; 
but  set  it  at  rest  on  this  point.  The  dead  babe  did  not 
perish  from  neglect  or  exposure,  but  it  died  from  the 
effects  of  its  mother's  mental  and  physical  sufferings  be 
fore  birth." 

Next  morning  the  marchioness  broke  the  news  gently 
enough  to  the  stricken  Eglantine,  who  persisted  in  be 
lieving  that  a  terrible  crime  had  been  committed  at  the 
instigation  of  her  aunt. 

"I  forgive  you,"  said  the  marchioness,  coolly.  "I  for 
give  you,  and  even  pity  you,  for  you,  Eglantine,  you 
were  the  cause  of  your  infant's  death 

"I — oh !"  she  began ;  but  she  was  too  much  exhausted 
to  continue.  She  could  only  sob  and  pant.  The  mar 
chioness  continued : 

"Yes,  Eglantine,  you !  It  was  your  mental  and  physi 
cal  tortures  and  agonies  that  fatally  affected  the  child's 
health  and  life — tortures  and  agonies  brought  on  by  sin 
and  remorse,  and  resulting  in  great  danger  to  yourself, 
and  in  death  to  your  child." 


THE  LOST  HEIR  49 

"I  wish  I  had  died,  too !  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  died,  too !" 
murmured  Eglantine,  like  one  sinking  under  the  in 
fluence  of  a  narcotic,  yet  whose  last  sentient  thought 
was  one  of  pain. 

"Dr.  Seton,  when  he  comes  to-morrow,  will  verify 
my  words,  and  satisfy  you  as  to  the  true  cause  of  your 
child's  death,"  continued  the  lady. 

"Hush!  let  me  alone;  hush!  I  would  rather  hear  a 
serpent  hiss  than  you,"  were  the  last  dreamy,  but  bitter 
words  of  Eglantine,  as  she  finally  succumbed  and  fell 
off  to  sleep. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Seton  sped  on  homeward,  where  he  ar 
rived  in  time  to  meet  the  undertaker,  with  whom  he 
arranged  for  the  burial  of  the  child.  It  was  interred,  by 
permission,  just  under  the  flagstones  of  the  church 
floor,  below  the  monument  of  Willie  Douglas.  There 
was  no  name  added  to  indicate  who  lay  below. 

Three  weeks  later  Magdelene  Hurst  embarked  as 
stewardess  on  board  the  Shaft,  bound  for  London,  and 
carrying  in  her  arms  the  child  of  Eglantine,  never 
dreaming  that  her  own  baby  lay  sleeping  beneath  the 
church  flagstones. 

At  parting  the  doctor  put  ten  pounds  in  her  hand,, 
representing  the  sum  as  the  donation  of  charitable  peo 
ple.  The  stewardess  took  it  thankfully  and  without 
suspicion,  and  so  departed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WAS  SHE  A  WIDOW  f 

Meanwhile  Eglantine,  with  all  the  advantages  of 
youth  and  health  on  her  side,  rapidly  recovered  her 
strength  and  cheerfulness. 

Dr.  Seton  assured  her  that  her  babe  had  not  perished 
through  any  neglect  or  exposure;  he  even  took  his 
oath  to  that  effect,  as,  of  course,  we  know  he  could 
safely  do. 

Then  he  volunteered  to  take  Eglantine  in  his  car- 


50  THE  LOST  HEIR 

riage,  as  soon  as  she  should  be  able  to  go  out,  to  see  the 
grave  of  "the"  child.  And  when  he  led  her  into  the 
church,  and  pointed  to  the  flagstone  just  below  Willie 
Douglas'  monument,  and  told  her  "the"  babe  was  buried 
there,  he  added  that  "it"  had  died,  not  from  the  effect 
of  any  neglect  or  exposure,  but  simply  and  naturally 
from  injuries  received  through  her  mental  and  physical 
sufferings  previous  to  its  birth. 

And  then  the  reproaches  that  Eglantine  had  heaped 
upon  Lady  Shetland's  head  were  turned  upon  her  own 
self ;  and  she  wept  bitterly  from  sorrow  and  remorse. 

"  'The  sins  of  the  parents  are  visited  upon  the  chil 
dren/  I  know,"  she  said ;  "but  oh,  it  seems  so  sad  that 
my  levity  and  folly  should  be  visited  so  heavily  upon 
such  a  poor  little  harmless,  helpless  creature!" 

She  felt  compunction,  too,  for  her  supposed  injustice 
to  Lady  Shetland,  and  she  tried  to  atone  for  it  by  a 
more  complete  obedience  to  that  lady's  will. 

The  marchioness,  on  her  part,  saw  her  vantage 
ground,  and  kept  it ;  she  never  uttered  one  word  of  re 
proach  to  her  niece,  but  sought  by  forbearance  to  bind 
the  young  creature  still  faster  to  herself. 

She  even  undertook  the  duty  of  making  Lord  Ornoch 
acquainted  with  the  state  of  affairs,  for  which  Eglan 
tine  was  really  grateful. 

But  this  suited  the  marchioness  better  than  any  other 
course,  and  she  hastened  to  appoint  an  interview  with 
the  young  earl  and  told  him  the  whole  story,  not  for 
getting  to  add  that  Eglantine's  child  was  now  dead. 

Lord  Ornoch  was  unable  to  speak  for  a  long  time. 
He  strode  up  and  down  the  room  with  a  sorrowful  face. 

At  length  he  paused  and  stood  before  the  lady,  and 
said: 

"Aunt  Shetland,  I  must  put  in  a  plea  for  this  poor 
child ;  for  she  is  little  less  than  a  child  in  years  as  well 
as  in  nature.  Heavens  knows  how  heavily  this  blow 
has  fallen  upon  me,  how  heavily  it  must  have  fallen 
even  upon  you,  but  it  should  not  make  us  cruel  or 
unjust  in  our  thoughts  of  her.  She  did  not  sin  in  wil- 
fulness;  she  did  but  err  in  judgment.  In  the  sight  of 


THE  LOST  HEIR  51 

Heaven,  she  is  blameless;  for  in  the  sight  of  Heaven 
she  has  been  a  wife  and  a  widow." 

"We  could  not  make  the  world  receive  her  as  such," 
coldly  commented  the  marchioness. 

"Then  the  world  is  a  sinner,  a  hypocrite  and  a  phari- 
see,  and  her  misfortune  must  be  hidden  from  its  false 
eyes  and  cruel  judgment.  But  as  for  me,  I  will  not 
forsake  her.  On  the  contrary,  if  she  will  permit  me,  I 
will  give  her  the  highest  proof  of  confidence  that  a  man 
can  give  a  woman:  I  will  make  her  my  wife." 

"And  what  would  the  world  say  to  that,  if  they  knew 
all?" 

"If  the  world  were  a  just  judge,  it  would  say  that  I 
did  well;  but  as  it  is  not  a  just  judge,  the  case  must 
not  be  brought  to  its  tribunal,"  replied  the  young  earl ; 
and  much  more  he  said  in  palliation  of  Eglantine's 
error  in  that  concealed  marriage. 

The  lady  did  not  interrupt  him  during  his  speech,  for 
she  could  only  gaze  upon  him  in  utter  astonishment  and 
unbounded  admiration. 

"It  is  the  noble  Ornoch  blood,"  she  said,  to  herself; 
then  aloud  to  him :  "You  forgive  her,  you  pity  her,  you 
plead  for  her " 

"In  a  word,  I  love  her,"  murmured  the  young  man, 
in  a  sweet  and  thrilling  tone. 

"And  yet  it  is  against  you  that  she  has  most  sinned." 

"I  cannot  see  that  she  has  sinned  at  all ;  certainly  not 
against  me.  At  the  time  she  contracted  that  marriage, 
she  was  not  in  any  way  bound  to  me ;  on  the  contrary, 
she  had  rejected  my  suit,  frankly  telling  me  that  she 
meant  to  marry  William  Douglas.  No;  I  cannot  see 
that  she  has  sinned  against  me,  or  against  any  one 
else." 

"Except,  then,  in  concealing  her  marriage  until  she 
was  forced  to  confess  it." 

"Ah,  but  I  can  well  comprehend  the  timidity,  the  ig 
norance  and  false  reasoning  that  kept  her  silent.  At 
first  she  had  been  very  frank  with  us.  She  had  told  us 
that  as  soon  as  she  should  become  of  age,  and  her  own 
mistress,  she  would  marry  William  Douglas.  Well, 
what  did  we  do?  We  procured  him  a  commission  in  a 


52  THE  LOST  HEIR 

marching  regiment,  and  sent  him  off  to  Canada  to  be 
killed.  What  did  she  do?  She  had  meant  to  be  obedi 
ent,  and  to  wait  until  she  should  be  her  own  mistress, 
before  she  should  marry  him ;  but  in  the  sorrow  of  the 
approaching  parting  she  yielded  to  temptation  and 
married  him  then,  feeling,  no  doubt,  the  more  justified 
because  her  respected  old  tutor  performed  the  cere 
mony.  Well,  the  young  man  met  a  tragic  fate  out  there. 
The  young  wife  was  widowed.  We  pressed  her  hardly, 
closely,  cruelly  into  the  path  she  took — you  and  I !  Be 
sides,  as  you  yourself  said,  she  did  not  know  the  worst. 
She  thought  her  dead  and  buried  marriage  was  all  that 
she  had  to  conceal.  Poor  child!  when  her  heart  was 
half  broken  with  grief  for  her  dead,  she  accepted  me 
to  please  you." 

"And  in  doing  so,  she  should  have  confessed  her  for 
mer  marriage,"  firmly  asserted  the  lady. 

"Ah,  yes;  perhaps  she  should,  but  she  had  not  the 
courage  to  do  so.  Have  we  always  the  courage  to  do 
right,  Aunt  Shetland?" 

"I  know  I  have,  and  I  think  you  have." 

The  next  morning,  according  to  appointment,  Lord 
Ornoch  called  and  inquired  for  Lady  Linlithgow. 

He  was  shown  into  a  summer  parlor,  bright  with  sun 
shine,  fragrant  with  flowers  and  cool  with  the  breeze 
from  the  loch  that  lay  under  its  windows. 

Here  Eglantine  soon  joined  him.  She  blushed  and 
trembled  with  painful  consciousness  and  embarrass 
ment,  as  she  crossed  the  room  toward  the  window  at 
which  he  sat. 

But  he  arose  and  went  to  meet  her,  and  drew  her 
gravely  and  silently  to  his  bosom,  and  pressed  a  sweet, 
solemn  kiss  upon  her  brow.  Then  he  drew  her  arm  with 
in  his  own,  led  her  to  a  sofa  near  the  window,  placed 
her  on  it,  and  seated  himself  beside  her.  His  whole 
manner  was  less  ardent,  more  respectful  than  it  would 
have  been  had  he  not  known  her  secret.  It  was  full  of 
serious  tenderness. 

Before  a  word  was  spoken  between  them,  Eglantine 
dropped  her  head  on  her  bosom,  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  wept  softly  behind  them. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  53 

Ornoch  watched  her  silently,  sympathetically,  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then,  perceiving  that  she  was  not 
likely  to  recover  herself,  he  murmured  gently: 

"Why  does  my  darling  weep?  'Let  the  dead  past 
bury  its  dead/  'Live  in  the  living  present.'  Weep  no 
more,  my  Eglantine ;  or,  if  you  must,  weep  here,  where 
I  can  dry  your  tears."  And  he  opened  his  arms  to  her. 

She  looked  up,  hastily  wiped  her  eyes  and  breathed: 

"Oh,  I  only  grieve  to  think  how  unworthy  I  am  of 
your  great  love.  You  deserve  a  better  wife  than  I  can 
be,  Lord  Ornoch." 

"I  wish  no  better  one,  out  of  all  the  wide  world.  I 
wish  only  your  dear  self.  I  wish  you  to  tell  me,  love, 
when  I  may  claim  you  for  my  own." 

"As  soon  as  you  please,  Lord  Ornoch.  I  esteem  you,  I 
revere  you  more  than  I  do  any  being  on  earth.  And, 
oh,  how  I  wish  that  I  could  love  you  as  you  have  the 
right  to  be  loved !  But  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  make  you 
happy;  and,  therefore,  I  repeat,  I  will  be  yours  as  soon 
as  you  please,"  she  murmured,  in  a  low,  timid  tone. 

"Aad  you  will  trust  me  to  win  the  sweet,  good  heart 
you  wish  to  give  me,"  he  answered,  as  he  drew  her  to 
his  bosom  and  pressed  a  kiss  on  her  lips. 

"And  now  I  must  go  and  see  Lady  Shetland,"  he  said, 
rising  gayly. 

He  found  that  strong-minded  woman  waiting  for  him 
in  her  favorite  room,  the  library.  He  told  her  all  that 
had  passed  between  Eglantine  and  himself. 

"And  so  she  has  consented  to  marry  you  as  soon  as 
you  please.  Well,  then,  let  it  be  at  once;  that  is  to 
say,  this  day  week.  That  will  give  us  time  to  tele 
graph  to  London  for  the  marquis,  and  to  Vienna  for 
your  mother  and  sister,  and  for  them  to  arrive  here  in 
time  for  the  wedding,  which  I  think,  under  the  circum 
stances,  should  be  rather  private.  What  do  you  say?" 

"I  agree  with  you  entirely,"  replied  the  young  earl. 

Eglantine,  when,  as  a  mere  matter  of  form,  she  was 
consulted  on  the  subject,  expressed  her  willingness  to 
come  into  any  arrangement  made  by  Lady  Shetland  and 
Lord  Ornoch. 

And  then  they  were  all  so  busy  with  their  prepara- 


54  THE  LOST  HEIR 

tions  that  not  one  of  them  found  time  to  look  at  the 
Times  that  day.  If  they  had,  some  one  might  have  seen 
this  short  paragraph: 

NOT  DEAD. — A  private  letter  from  Toronto  states  that  Lieu 
tenant  William  Douglas,  of  Her  Majesty's  Regiment  of 

Foot,  who  was  reported  to  have  been  killed  by  the  Indians 
last  summer,  is  not  dead,  but  is  a  captive  with  the  tribe.  A 
detachment  of  soldiers  has  been  sent  from  Fort  Stagnant  to 
look  him  up.  By  the  way,  it  will  be  remembered  that,  by  the 
recent  death  of  the  Earl  of  Wellrose,  Mr.  Douglas  is  now  the 
heir  apparent  of  the  Dukedom  of  Cheviot. 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

Captain  Frank  Harry,  of  the  Koyal  Guards,  the 
"finest  fellow  in  the  service,"  as  he  was  called  by  his 
associates  who  enjoyed  his  wines  and  cigars,  sat  at  one 
of  the  tables  in  the  big  dining-saloon  at  King's  Cross 
Station. 

He  was  idly  scanning  the  columns  of  the  Times 
when  a  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  and,  looking  up, 
he  saw — Willie  Douglas. 

The  paper  fell  to  the  floor,  and  two  hands  met  with  a 
clasp  of  iron. 

"It  is  Douglas,  isn't  it?"  said  young  Harry. 

"Or  all  that's  left  of  him,"  replied  Willie  gayly. 

"And  where  in  the  heavens  have  you  dropped  from? 
We  thought  that  you  had  been  comfortably  scalped  by 
the  North  American  Indians;  though  it  is  true  that  I 
have  recently  seen  that  contradicted.  How  was  it? 
You  were  not  scalped,  that  is  evident ;  for  those  infan 
tile  golden  locks  of  yours  are  as  full  as  ever.  Come, 
sit  down  and  have  some  tea  and  tell  us  all  about  it. 
I  expect  to  hear  a  narrative  that  will  outrival  Gulliver 
and  Munchausen." 

"I  came  very  near  losing  my  scalp,  and  my  life  also. 
All  my  unfortunate  companions,  except  one,  were  toma- 


THE  LOST  HEIK  55 

hawked  and  scalped  before  my  eyes,"  replied  young 
Douglas,  with  a  sad  seriousness  that  rebuked  the  levity 
of  the  others. 

"Oh,  indeed,"  put  in  Harry,  with  penitent  gravity: 
"but  how  did  you  escape?" 

"Myself  and  my  servant  were  taken  prisoners  and 
carried  far  away  into  the  wilderness,  where  we  re 
mained  captives  among  them  for  ten  months." 

"By  Jove!  that  was  a  misfortune!"  burst  forth  young 
Harry,  setting  down  his  teacup.  Then,  after  a  few 
moments'  silence,  he  added.  "I  don't  understand  what 
motives  those  savages  could  have  had  for  taking  you 
prisoners — that  is,  if  I  know  anything  about  them. 
They  didn't  want  to  eat  you,  as  the  New  Zealanders 
might  have  done;  nor  to  make  slaves  of  you,  as  the 
Moors  would  have  done " 

"No;  but  they  wanted  to  have  the  cruel  sport  of  tor 
turing  us  to  death  at  their  leisure,  as  I  afterward 
found  out.  You  have  surely  read  of  their  fiendish 
treatment  of  such  unfortunates  as  fall  alive  into  their 
hands." 

"Oh,  yes;  but  I  thought  that  such  barbarities  be 
longed  to  the  past,  even  among  savages." 

"Not  at  all !  These  wretches  have  not  made  one  step 
forward  in  civilization  since  the  first  discovery  of  their 
continent.  No;  I  and  my  servant  and  fellow  sufferer, 
being  taken  alive  and  unhurt,  were  reserved  for  torture 
— their  torture,  which  excels  in  fiendish  cruelty  the 
most  ingenious  deviltries  of  the  Inquisition.  We  were 
carried  many  miles  into  the  wilderness,  to  their  en 
campment.  On  our  arrival,  all  the  women  and  children 
ran  out  of  their  smoky  wigwams  to  greet  the  returning 
braves  with  their  captives  and  their  booty.  And  they 
leaped  and  danced  about  us  like  so  many  frenzied  she- 
devils  and  devil's  imps." 

Here  Douglas  stopped  to  sip  his  tea ;  but  Harry,  who 
was  impatient  to  hear  the  sequel  of  his  adventure,  soon 
cried  out: 

"Go  on,  for  Heaven's  sake!  How  the  deuce  did  you 
escape  torture  and  death?" 


56  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Through  another  blessed  custom  of  theirs,  and 
through  two  women." 

"Ah,  yes!  well?" 

"You  have  read  that  when  an  Indian  woman  loses  her 
husband  or  son  in  battle,  and  there  are  male  prisoners 
brought  in,  she  may  claim  one  among  them  as  a  substi 
tute  for  the  lost  son  or  husband?" 

"Oh,  yes !  So  an  Indian  woman  fell  in  love  with  you, 
and  saved  your  life?  Quite  natural,  my  fine  fellow!  I 
always  said  you  were  born  to  be  successful  among  the 
fair  sex!"  laughed  the  irrepressible  Harry. 

"You  are  too  fast,"  said  Douglas. 

"So  my  respected  grandmother  always  tells  me," 
laughed  Harry. 

"I  mean  to  say  that  you  are  precipitate  in  your  con 
clusions.  It  was  an  Indian  mother  who  lost  her  son, 
that  claimed  me.  A  strapping,  able-bodied  woman  of 
forty  she  was;  and  she  took  her  'rights'  without  talking 
about  them — took  me  out  of  the  hands  of  the  warriors 
without  asking  their  permission,  and  by  the  strength 
of  her  arms.  Well,  I  was  saved  from  the  death  of  tor 
ture;  but,  though  I  was  an  adopted  son  of  the  tribe,  I 
was  not  the  less  a  prisoner,  since  I  was  not  permitted 
to  leave  them." 

"And  your  servant?  Who  adopted  him?" 

Douglas  broke  into  a  hearty,  irrepressible  laugh. 

"He  was  claimed  by  a  hideously  ugly  squaw,  but  he 
escaped  from  her  clutches,  got  clear  off  to  camp  and 
brought  the  rest  of  the  company,  who  speedily  routed 
my  captors  and  restored  me  to  freedom  again." 

"And  you  were  ten  months  among  them?" 

"Ten  horrible  months  that  I  will  tell  you  about  at 
some  future  time.  Just  now  I  want  news — news  of  my 
neighbors,  the  Shetlands." 

"Young  Lady  Linlithgow  was  engaged  to  be  married 
to  the  Earl  of  Ornoch.  The  programme  was,  that  they 
were  to  be  united  at  Trosach  Castle,  and  immediately 
after  the  ceremony  they  were  to  proceed  to  Vienna,  to 
which  court  the  earl  has  been  appointed  ambassador." 

"Well — well — well;  why  don't  you  go  on?"  gasped 


THE  LOST  HEIK  57 

William  Douglas,  breathlessly,  seeing  that  the  other 
had  stopped  to  drink  his  tea. 

"Good  gracious,  man!  I  did  not  know  I  could  be  so 
interesting.  Well,  the  morning  of  the  wedding  came, 
the  altar  was  decorated;  the  breakfast  set;  the  guests 
assembled;  the  bride  dressed;  the  bridegroom  waiting 
when  -- 

''Well!  well!" 

"The  Marquis  of  Shetland  suddenly  entered  the 
drawing-room,  and  announced  that  the  bride  had  been 
taken  suddenly  ill,  and  the  marriage  could  not  go  for 
ward  that  day." 

"Thank  Heaven!  my  own  dear  love!  true  to  the  last!" 
deeply  breathed  young  Douglas. 

"I  say,  look  here,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  old 
boy?"  asked  Harry,  in  surprise. 

"Nothing.    I  don't  know!   Go  on!   What  next?" 
"Intelligible,  all  that!   'What  next?'    Why,  nothing 
next.    The  wedding  guests  went  home  ;  the  bridegroom 
expectant  went  off  to  the  Continent;  bride-elect  had  a 
brain  fever,  and  the  family  have  not  been  in  town  since 
At  the  opening  of  Parliament  the  marquis  came  up 
alone      By  the  way,  I  saw  by  this  evening's  Express 
that  he  has  left  town  for  Trosach  Castle."    ' 

"Yes  ;  I  heard  so  much  as  that     But  Ornoch—  con 
found  him  !  where  is  he?  Still  at  the  court  of  Austria?" 
JNo;  1  saw  his  arrival  in  town  a  week  ago,  and  his 
departure  for  Ornoch  the  same  day" 

j|The  devil  !»  exclaimed  William  Douglas,  starting  up. 
Hallo!  what's  the  matter  now?"  demanded  Harry 
in  surprise. 

"Oh,  nothing  much!    She  is  my  -   But  it  is  of  no 

forth  the  young  lieutenant> 


"Well,  I  do  declare!  All  this  comes  of  livin^  ten 
months  among  North  American  Indians,  T  suppose  " 
murmured  the  young  guardsman,  in  some  amazement  ' 
Excuse  me  Prank!  I  am  distrait;  but  you  would 
not  wonder  it  you  knew  all.  Is  that  broken-off  mar- 
nage  on  the  tapis  again,  do  you  know?" 


58  THE  LOST  HEIE 

"No,  I  do  not.  I  haven't  seen  nor  heard  a  word  on 
the  subject  yet." 

"Things  look  so — everybody  going  to  Scotland!" 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  Why,  dear  old  Willie,  it  is  the  season 
for  everybody  to  go  to  Scotland,  especially  for  those 
who  have  delightful  homes  in  the  Highlands.  But  I  be 
gin  to  see  what  ails  you  now.  You're  spooney  on  the 
little  Lady  Linlithgow!"  exclaimed  Captain  Harry, 
clapping  his  friend  on  the  back. 

Young  Douglas  blushed  like  a  girl,  and  so  betrayed 
himself. 

"Well,  cheer  up,  old  fellow!  It  is  my  opinion  that 
broken-off  marriage  will  never  be  patched  up  again. 
Such  seldom  are,  you  know.  Besides,  bless  my  soul! 
your  chance  of  success  is  far  better  than  that  of  the 
Earl  of  Ornoch  now !" 

"Better!  how  do  you  make  that  out?  A  poor  lieu 
tenant  in  a  marching  regiment!" 

"Sell  out  at  once,  my  boy,  and  go  upon  your  expec 
tations." 

"My  expectations!"  echoed  the  young  man,  a  little 
bitterly. 

"Yes,  your  expectations!" 

"I  should  like  to  know  what  they  are — to  reach  a 
captaincy  when  I  shall  be  fifty  years  old,  and  retire  on 
half-pay  at  seventy !"  laughed  the  young  man. 

"If  you  choose,  in  spite  of  fate,  to  remain  in  the 
army;  but  in  the  mean  time  you  inherit  the  titles  and 
estates  of  the  Duke  of  Cheviot." 

"Harry!  for  Heaven's  sake!  if  you  are  not  cruelly 
chaffing  me,  explain  your  meaning." 

"It  is  simple  enough.  The  Earl  of  Wellrose,  the  only 
son  and  heir  of  the  aged  Duke  of  Cheviot,  died  last 
January,  leaving  you,  as  next  of  kin  and  heir-at-law, 
to  step  into  his  prospects — that  is  all." 

Young  Douglas  threw  his  hands  to  his  head  and 
clasped  his  forehead.  He  could  not  comprehend  the 
good  fortune  that  had  so  suddenly  fallen  upon  him.  He 
literally  reeled  under  the  blow. 

"Since  you  did  not  know  this  sooner,  I  am  very  happy 


THE  LOST  HEIR  59 

to  be  the  first  to  announce  it  and  to  congratulate  you, 
Douglas,"  said  Captain  Harry,  now  quite  serious. 

"Stop,  stop  one  moment,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  mur 
mured  the  young  lieutenant,  divided  between  an  almost 
overwhelming  joy  at  the  great  chance  in  his  future 
prospects,  and  an  honest  remorse  for  rejoicing  at  the 
good  fortune  which  came  to  him  only  through'  the  ill 
fortune  of  others. 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  the  early  death  of  the  young 
earl,"  replied  Willie,  speaking  really  from  compunction, 
rather  than  from  grief. 

"He  is  better  off,"  put  in  Captain  Harry,  coolly,  ut 
tering  the  commonplace  piece  of  consolation. 

"And  I  am  still  sorrier  for  the  bereaved  old  duke," 
continued  Willie,  gravely. 

"Oh,  he  won't  live  long  to  suffer;  besides,  he  has  a 
great  comfort  in  the  Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  who  was 
always  his  favorite  child.  He  cannot  suffer  long.  He 
will  soon  'sleep  with  his  fathers,'  and  then  you  will  be 
the  seventh  Duke  of  Cheviot,  with  a  rent  roll  of  thirty 
thousand  pounds  a  year." 

"And  her  equal  in  rank  and  fortune!"  burst  forth 
the  boy,  with  irrepressible  triumph. 

"Her  equal  indeed !  Much  more  than  that.  A  duke 
dom  is  somewhat  higher  up  the  ladder  than  a  barony, 
I  fancy.  Indeed,  the  Duke  of  Cheviot  holds  several  bar 
onies,  besides  the  Earldom  of  Wellrose.  There  is  no 
marquisate  in  the  family,  however,  I  believe." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  striking  of  the  clock. 

William  Douglas  started  up. 

"What  now?"  inquired  Captain  Harry. 

"It  is  nine  o'clock.  I  am  off  to  Scotland  by  the  ten 
o'clock  train,  and  I  must  hurry  in  order  to  reach  it. 
Will  you  come  to  the  station  with  me?" 

"With  great  pleasure,"  said  the  young  guardsman, 
rising. 

They  found  Lieutenant  Douglas'  servant  waiting 
with  his  luggage,  in  the  hall. 

A  porter  called  a  cab,  and  the  friends  entered  it  and 
soon  found  themselves  rattling  on  toward  the  King's 
Cross  Station. 


CO  THE  LOST  HEIR 

They  were  in  time.  Young  Douglas  purchased  his 
tickets,  jumped  into  a  first-class  carriage,  waved  his 
hand  to  his  friend,  and  was  off  on  his  journey. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AN  APPARITION. 

It  was  a  very  charming  party  that  assembled  at 
Trosach  Castle  to  do  honor  to  the  approaching  nuptials 
of  Alexander  Moray,  Earl  of  Ornoch,  and  Eglantine 
Seton,  Baroness  Linlithgow. 

The  telegrams  that  had  been  sent  to  summon  friends 
and  relatives  from  distant  places  had  been  immediately 
answered,  to  the  effect  that  the  recipients  would  make 
it  a  point  to  be  at  the  castle  in  good  time  for  the  wed 
ding. 

And  first  came  the  Marquis  of  Shetland,  glad  to 
escape  from  the  heat  and  smoke  of  the  city  to  the 
beautiful  shores  of  the  loch  and  the  bracing  air  of  the 
mountains;  but  by  no  means  so  glad  of  the  occasion, 
which  was  meant  to  bestow  his  young,  wealthy  niece,  a 
peeress,  in  her  own  right,  upon  his  wife's  impoverished 
nephew,  who  had  nothing  but  his  empty  title  and  his 
mortgaged  estates.  He  acquiesced  in  this  matrimonial 
measure  merely  because  it  was  the  dearest  wish  of 
his  wife's  heart.  And  so  now  he  was  on  hand  to  take 
his  own  part  in  the  performance  by  giving  away  the 
bride. 

On  the  day  after  the  arrival  of  the  marquis  came  the 
Countess  Dowager  of  Ornoch,  with  her  daughter,  Lady 
Katherine  Moray,  and  her  friend,  the  beautiful  Lady 
Margaret  Douglas.  As  their  own  house  at  Ornoch  was 
not  ready  to  receive  the  family,  they,  at  the  request  of 
Lady  Shetland,  took  up  their  abode  at  Trosach  Castle. 

Other  guests  arrived  on  the  succeeding  days,  and  the 
house  was  full  of  midsummer  company. 

Eglantine  Seton  had  never  been  very  fond  of  her  pros 
pective  sister-in-law,  the  Lady  Katherine  Moray.  That 


THE  LOST  HEIR  61 

haughty,  handsome  blonde  was  "not  one  to  love."  Even 
her  beauty  was  too  pronounced  in  style  to  please  artis 
tic  eyes.  Her  form,  though  perfectly  proportioned,  was 
too  tall,  her  bust  too  full,  her  head  too  round,  her 
features  too  regular,  her  yellow  hair,  white  forehead, 
blue  eyes  and  red  cheeks  and  lips  were  too  bright  in 
colors  and  too  strongly  contrasted  for  the  spirit  of 
beauty.  "Dazzling!"  "Splendid!"  "Stunning!"  were  the 
epithets  bestowed  upon  the  young  lady  by  her  ad 
mirers. 

Lady  Margaret  Douglas  was  of  a  very  different  de- 
'ription,  both  as  to  person  and  character.    She  was  of 
ledium  size,  slender,  but  not  thin.    Her  features  were 
tall,  soft  and  pretty.  Her  eyes  were  dark  hazel,  large, 
iquid,    tender,    and    fringed  with  thickly-set,   curled 
lashes  and  arched  with  slender  dark  brows.    Her  hair 
)f  soft  brown  rippled  off  in  tiny  wavelets  from  her 
>ure,  pale  forehead  and  was  gathered  in  a  curly  bunch 
'at  the  back  of  her  head.    Her  complexion  was  clear  and 
pale,  save  where  it  warmed  into  a  peachy  bloom  on  her 
^oval  cheeks  and  brightened  to  crimson  buds  on  her 
small,  plump  lips. 

She  was  wearing  second  mourning  for  her  brother, 
and  her  plain  gray  dress  harmonized  well  with  her 
quiet  style  of  beauty. 

Eglantine  Seton  had  never  met  Lady  Margaret 
Douglas  before  her  visit  to  the  castle.  But  she  had 
heard  much  of  that  sweet  girl's  devotion  to  her  aged, 
ill  and  impoverished  father,  and  thus  she  was  prepared 
to  love  her. 

Eglantine  learned  from  Lady  Ornoch  that  even  this 
short  relaxation  was  a  matter  of  necessity  that  had 
been  forced  upon  the  devoted  daughter.  Her  nervous 
system  was  breaking  down  under  the  severe  ordeal 
of  a  sick  room  in  London  in  the  dogdays.  And  the 
duke's  medical  attendant  ordered  her  to  the  Highlands 
for  recuperation.  The  duke,  who  was  or  seemed  to  be 
recovering  his  health,  refused  to  take  so  long  a  journey 
himself,  but  he  enforced  the  doctor's  orders  that  his 
daughter  should  go  to  Scotland;  and  he  wrote  a  note 
to  his  old  friend  Lady  Ornoch,  whose  arrival  at  her 


62  THE  LOST  HEIR 

town  house  in  Park  Lane,  en  route  for  Scotland,  he 
had  seen  chronicled  in  the  morning  paper;  and  he  re 
quested  the  countess  to  take  charge  of  Lady  Margaret 
for  the  journey,  as  he  intended  to  send  his  daughter  to 
visit  his  kinsman,  Dugald  Douglas  of  Stony  Isle,  near 
Trosach  Castle. 

This  note  brought  a  call  and  an  invitation  from  Lady 
Ornoch,  which  ended  in  Lady  Margaret  becoming  her 
guest  for  the  season. 

As  soon  as  Eglantine  Seton  and  Margaret  Douglas 
met,  they  began  to  love  each  other. 

Eglantine  begged  Margaret  to  be  her  second  brides 
maid,  as  Lady  Katherine  Moray  was  to  be  her  first. 

And  Margaret  consented  to  lay  off  her  mourning  for 
the  occasion,  that  she  might  oblige  one  for  whom  she 
felt  almost  a  sisterly  affection. 

It  wanted  yet  three  days  to  the  wedding  morning, 
when  Lady  Ornoch,  thinking  that  the  young  people  in 
the  house  were  rather  dull,  proposed  to  her  sister,  Lady 
Shetland,  that  they  should  get  up  a  dance  for  the  next 
evening.  And  as  the  weather  was  quite  cool,  and  there 
seemed  nothing  to  prevent  it,  the  countess  consented. 
And  accordingly  the  few  necessary  preparations  for  the 
almost  impromptu  entertainment  were  made.  Invita 
tions  were  sent  out  to  neighboring  friends,  and  a  tele 
gram  sent  to  Glasgow  to  bring  down  a  band  of  music. 
The  great  hall  was  cleared  out  and  decorated  for  the 
dancers,  and  all  was  ready  by  noon  of  the  next  day. 

That  very  noon  William  Douglas  was  traveling  be 
tween  Edinburgh  and  Stirling  on  his  way  to  Trosach 
Castle. 

When  the  hour  came  for  the  assembling  of  the  com 
pany,  the  house  began  to  fill  with  a  merry  crowd  of 
young  people,  who  were  all  the  merrier  because  the  en 
tertainment  was  so  informal  and  so  unexpected. 

The  Earl  of  Ornoch  opened  the  ball,  with  Lady  Lin- 
lithgow  as  his  partner.  Their  vis-a-vis  were  Captain 
Sinclair  of  the  Royal  Guards  and  Lady  Katherine  Mo 
ray.  Kilgour  of  Kilgour  with  Lady  Margaret  Douglas, 
and  the  Honorable  Duncan  Kier,  with  Miss  Kilgour, 
completed  the  set. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  63 

The  pleasure  was  at  its  very  acme;  the  young  ladies 
and  gentlemen  were  dancing,  chatting,  flirting,  laugh 
ing,  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  a  care,  a  want,  or 
a  duty  in  the  world;  and  their  elders,  occupying  the 
sofas  against  the  walls,  were  gossiping  with  each  other 
or  silently  speculating  on  the  probable  or  even  possible 
marriages,  eligible  or  otherwise,  for  these  youthful  can 
didates  for  matrimonial  honors,  when  the  doors  were 
thrown  open  by  a  hall  footman,  wrho  announced  a  name 
that  was  only  heard  by  those  standing  nearest  the  en 
trance. 

There  was  a  slight  commotion  among  these  as  they 
made  way  for  the  newcomer,  just  as  Eglantine,  with  a 
wild  cry  of  joy,  fled  across  the  hall  and  threw  herself 
half-fainting  into  the  arms  of  the  stranger,  who  caught 
and  strained  her  sinking  form  to  his  breast. 

The  startled  crowd  turned  to  see  the  cause  of  all  this. 

There  stood  William  Douglas,  as  one  raised  from  the 
dead,  supporting  the  fainting  form  of  Eglantine  Seton. 

A  spell  as  of  sudden  death  fell  upon  the  stupefied  as 
sembly!  The  gentle  turbulence  made  up  of  gliding 
feet,  floating  forms,  low  tones  and  sweet  laughter,  was 
suddenly  hushed  into  stillness. 

And  then  a  murmur  of  voices  arose  among  those  who 
recognized  the  visitor.  One  of  the  first  to  know  him 
again  was  the  Marquis  of  Shetland,  who  exclaimed : 

"Why,  Lord  bless  my  soul !  it  is  young  Douglas,  come 
back  from  Canada,  alive  after  all." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Captain  Sinclair,  of  the  Guards, 
"the  report  of  his  death  was  contradicted  in  the  Times. 
Didn't  you  know  it?" 

"No,  I  did  not,"  answered  the  marquis,  leaving  the 
others  to  discuss  the  matter,  and  striding  toward  the 
door  where  he  thought  his  interference  much  needed. 
He  was  followed  by  the  Earl  of  Ornoch,  Lady  Shetland 
and  other  members  of  the  family  circle.  All  the  guests 
had  the  tact  and  delicacy  to  keep  aloof. 

"Release  that  young  lady  immediately,  sir!"  com 
manded  the  Marquis  of  Shetland,  attempting  to  with 
draw  Eglantine. 

"Thanks,  no ;  she  is  my  wife,"  answered  young  Doug- 


64:  THE  LOST  HEIR 

las  quite  coolly,  as  he  put  off  the  marquis  with  one 
arm,  while  he  gathered  Eglantine  closer  to  his  heart 
with  the  other. 

"Your  wife!  Are  you  mad,  sir?  Release  her  this 
moment!"  ordered  the  marquis,  in  the  low,  intense 
tones  of  repressed  anger. 

The  young  man  replied  only  by  gazing  upon  Eglan 
tine's  pale  and  quivering  face  with  looks  of  unutterable 
affection. 

"Lady  Linlithgow,  leave  that  man's  support,  and 
come  with  me!"  said  the  marquis,  appealing  to  hir 
niece. 

"I  cannot,  uncle!  He  is  my  husband!  Aunt  Shet 
land  knows  it ;  so  does  Lord  Ornoch ;  so  does  Dr.  Seton : 
so  does  Elspeth,"  answered  Eglantine  in  quivering 
tones.  Then,  looking  up  into  youmg  Douglas'  face,  she 
broke  forth  suddenly,  "Oh,  Willie!  We  thought  yov 
were  dead,  and  my  heart  was  broken — broken,  but  faith 
ful  to  you,  Willie,  notwithstanding  all  this !" 

"I  know  it,  beloved — I  know  it  well,"  he  answered, 
with  his  loyal  faith  in  her. 

"And  you  live!  you  live!  Oh,  it  is  too  much  joy! 
And  oh,  it  may  be  only  a  dream!  Oh,  Willie,  tell  me 
that  it  is  no  dream — that  I  look  in  your  face  again !" 

"It  is  no  dream,  my  own  dear,  dear  wife !" 

"Oh,  I  am  so  happy!  so  happy!"  sighed  Eglantine. 

Then  suddenly,  compassionately  remembering  one 
who  was  made  utterly  miserable  by  the  same  event 
that  rendered  her  so  happy,  she  turned  and  looked  for 
Lord  Ornoch. 

He  was  standing  at  a  short  distance,  leaning  against 
one  of  the  wreathed  pillars  for  support.  He  was  deadly 
pale,  but,  outwardly  at  least,  calm.  Eglantine's  eyes 
filled  with  ears. 

"Oh,  pardon  me,  pardon  me,  if  I  have  hurt  you,  Lord 
Ornoch!  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing.  I  did  not 
know  that  my  dear  husband  was  alive!"  she  pleaded. 

"I  have  nothing  to  pardon,  Lady  Linlithgow,  how 
ever  much  I  may  have  to  regret.  You  have  done  me  no 
intentional  wrong.  I  hope  that  you  may  be  happy," 
answered  the  earl,  in  a  roice  vibrating  with  the  deep 


THE  LOST  HEIR  65 

emotion  of  his  soul.  And  he  was  moving  sadly  away, 
when  he  was  stopped  by  Lady  Shetland,  who  had  al 
most  lost  her  high-bred  self-possession. 

"And  will  you  give  her  up  in  this  manner?  Then 
you  deserve  to  lose  her !"  said  her  ladyship,  in  the  low, 
deep  tones  of  intense  and  concentrated  passion. 

"She  is  the  wife  of  another  man,"  coldly  replied  the 
earl,  bowing  and  moving  off. 

"The  wife  of  another  man,  indeed !  She  is  nothing  of 
the  kind.  In  professing  to  be  such,  she  only  proclaims 
her  own  dishonor.  That  marriage  ceremony,  privately 
performed  in  England,  between  two  minors,  is  perfectly 
null  and  void.  Will  no  one  take  that  girl  from  that 
man?"  she  hissed  between  her  set  teeth,  as  she  laid  her- 
own  hands  upon  the  form  of  Eglantine. 

"Softly,  Lady  Shetland,"  said  young  Douglas,  gently 
putting  her  back.  "Your  ladyship  is  utterly  mistaken. 
The  marriage  ceremony  privately  performed  between 
two  minors  in  London,  and  openly  acknowledged  by 
both  parties  in  Scotland,  is  as  valid  as  church  and  state 
can  make  it.  I  appeal  to  the  marquis  here,  if  this  is- 
not  true?" 

The  Marquis  of  Shetland,  who  for  the  last  ten  min 
utes  had  been  standing  in  a  state  of  stupefied  silence,, 
now  recovered  his  faculties,  and  also  recollected  that 
William  Douglas  was  no  longer  the  poor  lieutenant,, 
with  nothing  but  his  pay  for  the  present,  and  no  pros 
pects  but  of  slow  promotion  for  the  future.  He  was- 
now  the  heir  presumptive  of  a  dukedom  with  a  rent  roll 
of  thirty  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and  consequently  he 
was  a  much  more  eligible  match  for  Eglantine  than, 
was  the  impoverished  young  Earl  of  Ornoch. 

"I  appeal  to  the  marquis  here;  I  appeal  to  the  whole 
company  assembled  here,  if  our  marriage  is  not  now 
perfectly  valid !"  repeated  Mr.  Douglas. 

"Hush,  hush;  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  call  others 
into  our  counsels,"  whispered  the  marquis.  Then,  ad 
dressing  the  marchioness,  he  astonished  her  by  saying, 
quite  coolly:  "Mr.  Douglas  is  perfectly  correct  in  his 
statement.  The  marriage  openly  acknowledged  here  is. 
valid  and  binding,  and  cannot  be  dissolved  except  by/ 


66  THE  LOST  HEIR 

death  or  crime.  But  see !  our  friends  are  watching  us 
from  a  distance,  and  wondering  what  we  are  doing. 
This  must  end.  Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  my  dear,  come 
here.  Take  Eglantine  and  lead  her  away  to  her  cham 
ber,  and  remain  with  her  until  she  recovers  her  calm 
ness.  Mr.  Douglas,  do  me  the  favor  to  follow  me  to  the 
library." 

And  gently  Lady  Margaet  put  her  arm  around  the 
waist  of  her  friend  and  led  her  from  the  hall. 

And  Mr.  Douglas  followed  the  Marquis  of  Shetland 
to  the  library,  leaving  a  general  low  murmur  of  voices 
behind  them. 

The  Earl  of  Ornoch  had  also  disappeared.  There 
remained  standing  near  the  door  Lady  Shetland,  Lady 
Ornoch  and  Lady  Katherine  Moray. 

"Did  you  know  of  this?"  inquired  the  Countess  of 
Ornoch,  addressing  her  sister  in  a  tone  of  reproach. 

Lady  Shetland  made  a  gesture  of  disgust  as  she  an 
swered  : 

"I  knew  of  the  private  marriage  months  after  it  had 
taken  place,  and  after  we  had  heard  the  report  of 
young  Douglas'  death.  I  told  Ornoch  of  it,  and  left 
him  to  keep  or  break  his  engagement  with  my  niece  as 
he  deemed  best.  He  decided  to  keep  it,  not  dreaming 
of  such  a  contingency  as  the  return  of  Douglas,  whom 
we  believed  to  be  dead." 

"And  I,  his  mother,  was  told  nothing  of  all  this," 
complained  Lady  Ornoch. 

"It  rested  with  him  to  tell  you,  not  with  me.  He  was 
the  person  most  concerned,  you  perceive.  And  there  is 
little  doubt  but  that  he  would  have  told  you  some 
time." 

"Some  time!"  echoed  Lady  Ornoch. 

"Come,  sister,  you  know  that  I  feel  as  much  annoyed, 
disappointed,  mortified,  as  you  can  possibly  be.  But 
we  must  both  try  to  prevent  scandal,  if  possible.  Let 
us  mingle  with  our  guests  and  promote  their  enjoy 
ment,"  said  Lady  Shetland. 

And  seeing  her  groom  of  the  chambers  passing  near, 
in  the  outer  hall,  she  beckoned  him  to  approach,  and 


THE  LOST  HEIK  67 

directed  him  to  go  to  the  band  of  musicians  and  order 
them  to  go  on  with  the  music. 

The  next  music  on  the  programme  was  a  waltz,  and 
twenty  or  thirty  couples  were  soon  whirling  round  and 
round  to  its  delightful  measure.  To  the  waltz  suc 
ceeded  the  quadrille.  And  then,  in  the  interval  of  rest 
that  ensued,  Eglantine  re-entered  the  hall,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  the  Marquis  of  Shetland,  and  followed  by 
the  Lady  Margaret  Douglas  on  the  arm  of  her  cousin, 
Lieutenant  Douglas.  It  had  been  decided  among  them 
that  no  announcement  of  the  marriage  should  be  made 
to  the  assembled  company  that  evening,  and  no  explana 
tion  of  the  little  scene  at  the  door  should  be  offered, 
but  that  the  programme  of  the  evening's  entertainment 
should  be  carried  out,  just  as  if  nothing  extraordinary 
had  occurred  to  interrupt  it. 

William  Douglas  was  warmly  welcomed  by  his 
friends  and  acquaintances  in  the  assembly,  and  each 
and  all  were  anxious  to  hear  the  story  of  his  captivity 
and  his  deliverance.  But  he  smilingly  replied  to  all  in 
quiries  that  he  could  not  satisfy  their  curiosity  with 
out  making  a  speech,  and  this  was  not  an  occasion  for 
oratory. 

Then  the  music  struck  up  again,  and  the  dancing  re 
commenced. 

But  neither  William  Douglas  nor  Eglantine  joined 
the  dancers,  nor  did  they  approach  each  other  again 
during  the  evening.  It  was  judged  best  that  they 
should  not  do  so,  especially  as  the  company  seemed  to 
have  no  suspicion  of  the  true  state  of  the  case,  but  ap 
peared  to  have  satisfied  themselves  with  a  little  theory 
of  their  own,  to  the  effect  that  the  sudden  arrival  of 
a  man  supposed  to  have  been  murdered  many  months 
ago  was  quite  sufficient  to  cause  a  disturbance  much 
greater  than  that  which  for  a  few  moments  had  inter 
rupted  their  festivities — quite  sufficient,  in  fact,  to 
cause  the  fainting  of  Eglantine,  who  was  prevented 
from  sinking  by  being  supported  in  the  arms  of  the 
newcomer.  Such  was  their  theory,  from  all  they  had 
seen.  Of  course,  they  had  heard  nothing  of  the  con- 


68  THE  LOST  HEIR 

versation,  carried  on  in  the  low,  intense  tones  in  which 
the  parties  spoke. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  supper-room  was  thrown  open, 
and  the  guests  marched  in  to  the  table. 

After  supper  the  ancient  dance  of  Sir  Roger  de  Cov- 
erly  was  performed. 

After  that  the  ball  broke  up,  and  the  company  left 
the  house. 

William  Douglas  lingered  last  of  all.  He  hardly  knew 
yet  what  his  fate  was  to  be. 

Lady  Ornoch  and  Lady  Katherine  Moray  retired  to 
their  apartments.  Lady  Shetland,  too  indignant  to  re 
main  behind,  followed. 

Still  William  Douglas  lingered,  expecting  perhaps, 
poor  love-sick  boy!  to  be  invited  to  stay  all  night.  And 
Eglantine  lingered,  holding  on  to  the  arm  of  Lady  Mar 
garet  Douglas,  whom  she  detained  to  keep  her  in  coun 
tenance.  And  meanwhile  the  servants  were  going 
around  snuffing  out  the  wax  lights  in  the  chandeliers. 
At  length  the  Marquis  of  Shetland  spoke: 

"It  seems  very  inhospitable,  my  good  boy,  but  really 
I  think  you  had  better  say  good-night,  and  go  away. 
You  know  where  to  find  a  boat  to  take  you  over  to 
Stony  Isle,  and  you  can  get  there  in  time  to  surprise  the 
servants,  who  will  be  just  stirring.  Come  again  to 
morrow,  and  we  will  talk  this  matter  over  amicably. 
You  shall  have  Eglantine,  of  course,  the  sooner  because 
you  have  got  her  already.  But  we  must  try  to  arrange 
affairs  so  as  to  avoid  having  you  talked  about." 

William  Douglas  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
marquis'  prudence,  and  then  took  his  leave. 

Lady  Margaret  Douglas  drew  Eglantine  away,  and 
remained  with  her  during  the  night. 

The  family  were  late  in  rising  the  next  morning. 

The  Marquis  of  Shetland,  Lady  Margaret  Douglas 
and  Eglantine  were  the  only  members  of  the  family 
that  appeared  at  the  breakfast  table.  The  marquis 
greeted  the  two  young  ladies  affectionately.  In  fact, 
the  more  he  reflected  upon  Eglantine's  marriage,  the 
better  he  felt  pleased  with  it. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  69 

"The  girl  has  done  much  better  for  herself  than  we 
could  have  done  for  her,"  he  said  to  himself. 

While  they  were  still  at  breakfast  they  were  sur 
prised  by  an  unexpected  visitor,  in  the  person  of  Dr. 
McGill,  who  entered  unannounced. 

The  marquis  half  arose  from  his  seat,  with  a  look  of 
interrogation  on  his  face. 

"Excuse  me,  your  lordship!  The  footman  told  me 
you  were  at  breakfast,  but  my  business  is  one  that  will 
not  admit  of  delay,"  said  Dr.  McGill,  in  a  hurried 
voice. 

"Sit  down,  doctor.    Have  a  cup  of  coffee?" 

''Thanks;  no.  Permit  me  to  explain  my  errand.  Dr. 
Seton  is  extremely  ill — dying,  in  fact.  He  had  a  fit  of 
apoplexy  two  days  ago.  Yesterday,  toward  evening,  he 
rallied  a  little,  recovered  consciousness,  and,  in  an  im 
perfect  degree,  his  speech.  But,  in  the  course  of  the 
night,  some  injudicious  person  suddenly  informed  him 
of  the  unexpected  return  of  Lieutenant  Douglas,  who 
was  supposed  to  have  been  murdered  by  the  Indians. 
The  shock  was,  for  some  unknown  reason,  so  great  as  to 
cause  a  very  dangerous,  and,  I  fear,  fatal  relapse.  But 
this  morning  he  has  again  rallied  a  little,  and  contrived 
to  make  me  understand  that  he  must  see  Mr.  Douglas 
and  Lady  Linlithgow  immediately;  for  that  he  has  a 
communication  to  make  to  them,  of  the  most  vital  im 
portance.  Of  course,  your  lordship,  under  such  cir 
cumstances,  neither  the  young  gentleman  nor  the  young 
lady  will  deny  the  request  of  a  dying  man." 

''Most  assuredly  not,"  answered  the  marquis,  who 
had  listened  with  fixed  attention  to  the  hurried  account 
given  by  Dr.  McGill.  "David,  order  the  carriage 
around  instantly.  Eglantine,  my  dear,  go  and  get 
ready  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  will  myself  attend  you 
to  the  bedside  of  Dr.  Seton.  His  request  may  be  only 
a  dying  man's  whim,  but  it  must  not  be  neglected." 

Eglantine,  who,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  had  listened 
with  breathless  attention  and  pallid  cheeks  to  Dr.  Mc- 
Gill's  words,  arose  and  hurried  from  the  room,  followed 
by  Lady  Margaret  Douglas. 


70  THE  LOST  HEIK 

She  had  scarcely  disappeared  when  Mr.  William 
Douglas  was  announced. 

"Ah,  Douglas,  you  are  just  in  time.  Such  a  strange 
event!  Dr.  Seton,  who  is  dying,  has  sent  a  message, 
requiring  the  presence  of  Eglantine  and  yourself  at  his 
bedside,  to  hear  some  important  communication  that 
he  has  to  make  to  you,"  said  the  marquis,  cordially 
shaking  the  hand  of  the  young  gentleman,  who  looked 
very  much  surprised. 

But  Eglantine  appeared,  and  the  carriage  was  an 
nounced  at  the  same  instant. 

"Take  her  to  the  carriage,  Douglas,  and  I  will  fol 
low,"  said  the  marquis,  good-naturedly. 

The  young  husband  drew  his  wife's  hand  within  his 
arm,  pressed  it  affectionately,  and  led  her  out,  followed 
by  the  marquis. 

When  they  were  seated  in  the  carriage,  the  marquis 
ordered  the  coachman  to  drive  as  fast  as  possible  to 
the  village  of  Seton.  A  rapid  drive  of  an  hour's  length 
brought  them  to  their  destination. 

They  alighted  before  Dr.  Seton's  door,  and  were  at 
once  admitted  into  the  house  and  shown  to  his  dark 
ened  sickroom. 

Dr.  McGill  went  and  opened  one  of  the  windows,  ad 
mitting  the  light  into  the  chamber.  And  then  the  vis 
itors  approached  the  bed  where  the  sick  man  lay,  ap 
parently  in  the  stupor  that  precedes  death.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  bed  stood  his  housekeeper  and  his 
young  medical  assistant. 

"Leave  the  room,  you  two,  for  a  few  minutes,"  said 
Dr.  McGill. 

And  the  housekeeper  and  the  student  withdrew. 
Then  Dr.  McGill  stooped  and  spoke  to  the  dying  man, 
saying : 

"Seton,  here  are  the  young  people  whom  you  sent 
for." 

The  dying  man  slowly  and  heavily  opened  his  eyes, 
and  recognizing  Eglantine  and  William  Douglas,  strug 
gled  to  speak ;  but  failed,  for  the  faculty  of  speech  had 
left  him. 

Dr.  McGill  poured  out  a  restorative,  and  put  it  to  his 


THE  LOST  HEIR  71 

lips,  but  he  choked,  for  the  power  of  swallowing  was 
also  gone. 

Yet  he  was  perfectly  and  most  painfully  conscious, 
for  he  struggled  again  and  again  to  confess  the  secret 
that  was  burdening  his  conscience;  and,  failing  again 
and  again  to  do  so,  he  turned  his  dying  eyes,  full  of  un 
utterable  agony,  on  the  face  of  Eglantine,  and  kept 
them  so  till  they  became  fixed  in  death. 

And  thus  the  only  one  in  all  the  world  who  knew  the 
existence  of  Eglantine's  son  left  the  world,  taking  the 
secret  with  him. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

BURIED    AND    MARRIED. 

"He  is  gone!"  said  the  marquis,  solemnly.  "Come 
away,  my  child."  And  he  led  Eglantine  out  of  the 
room,  followed  by  William  Douglas. 

He  left  behind  him  a  wailing  group,  for  the  doctor 
was  well  beloved  by  his  small  household. 

He  led  his  niece  to  the  front  parlor,  and  sat  her 
down  on  an  easy  chair.  She  was  pale,  faint  and  almost 
entirely  overcome. 

She  was,  for  one  so  young,  very  familiar  with  death. 
She  had  seen  her  father  die,  then  her  mother,  and 
lastly  her  good  old  tutor ;  but  there  was  something  more 
than  sorrow  and  solemnity  in  this  death;  there  was 
horror — the  horror  of  a  soul  passing  away  burdened 
with  a  secret  it  had  labored  and  agonized  to  divulge, 
without  success.  She  dropped  back  on  her  chair,  al 
most  ready  to  swoon.  Lord  Shetland  and  Mr.  Douglas 
stood  over  her.  There  chanced  to  be  a  decanter  of  port 
wine  standing  on  the  table.  Mr.  Douglas  stepped  up 
to  it,  poured  out  a  glass  full,  and  brought  it  to  her.  At 
his  request,  she  sipped  half  the  contents  of  the  glass, 
and  in  a  few  moments  felt  its  reviving  effects. 

"Now,"  suggested  the  marquis,  uas  my  niece  Eglan- 
time  is  the  nearest  of  kin  to  the  deceased,  and  as  I  am 


72  THE  LOST  HEIR 

her  guardian,  acting  for  her,  to  make  necessary  ar 
rangements  for  the  funeral,  you  will  oblige  me,  Doug 
las,  by  taking  Eglantine  home.  You  can  afterward  or 
der  fresh  horses  put  to  the  carriage  and  send  it  back 
for  me." 

Young  Douglas  saw  through  and  appreciated  the 
motive  of  the  marquis,  and  with  all  his  lover  heart 
thanked  the  old  man  for  his  kindness  in  affording  him 
such  an  excellent  opportunity  for  a  tete-a-tete  with  his 
beloved  as  their  long  journey  would  insure. 

Eglantine  also  seemed  even  more  revived  by  this 
prospect  than  by  the  wine.  She  lifted  her  head,  fin 
ished  her  glass,  and  then  accep  dte,mloJ  shrdlu  pauo 
ished  the  glass,  and  then  accepted  the  arm  William 
Douglas  offered  to  lead  her  to  the  carriage. 

When  they  were  seated  and  the  order  was  given  to 
drive  back  to  Torsach  Castle,  and  the  door  was  closed 
and  the  carriage  in  motion,  William  Douglas  put  his 
arms  around  his  wife's  waist  and  drew  her  to  his 
bosom,  murmuring: 

"Oh,  my  dearest!  my  dearest!  this  blessed  meeting 
make  up  for  all." 

Too  full  of  emotion  for  any  words,  she  dropped  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder  and  wept  tears  of  mingled  joy 
and  sorrow,  which  from  time  to  time  he  wiped  or 
kissed  away. 

At  length,  when  she  grew  more  composed,  she  lifted 
her  head  and  repeated  the  first  words  she  had  spoken 
to  him  on  their  first  reunion. 

"Oh,  Willie!  Willie!  I  have  been  faithful  to  you  at 
heart,  notwithstanding  all." 

"I  am  sure  that  you  have,  my  own  dearest  love,"  he 
replied. 

"And  you  do  not  reproach  me,  and  you  do  not  sus 
pect  me,  even  though  you  found  me  on  the  eve  of  mar 
riage  with  Lord  Ornoch !  Oh,  Willie!" 

"You,  like  all  others,  believed  me  dead.  Then  you, 
still  a  very  young  and  very  gentle  girl,  yielded  to  the 
irresistible  power  of  those  who  still  had  authority 
over  you.  I  understand  it  all,  dear  love,"  he  softly 
answered. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  73 

"Oh,  Willie !  dearest,  there  was  something  more  than 
authority  exercised,"  she  sobbed. 

''More  than  authority?"  questioned  Douglas,  frown 
ing. 

''There  was  held  over  me  the — what  shall  I  say? — 
not  the  threat,  but  the  impending  fall  of  a  deep  dis 
honor,  and  not  on  me  only,  but  on  mine  ancient  name !" 

"  'Dishonor !'     Eglantine  ?" 

"Yes;  for  you  know  they  said  our  English  marriage 
was  not  legal,  since  it  was  contracted  between  minors, 
without  the  consent  of  their  parents  or  guardians." 

"It  was  legal !  The  Marquis  of  Shetland  himself  de 
clared  it  to  be  so !"  indignantly  exclaimed  young  Doug 
las. 

"Yes,  dearest,  when  you  publicly  acknowledged  it  in 
Scotland,  it  was  made  legal ;  but  until  you  did  that  it 
was  not  so,"  gently  observed  Eglantine. 

"Ah!  and  so  they  told  you  I  was  dead  and  could 
never  acknowledge  our  marriage.  And  so  they  terrified 
you  into  consenting  to  another  marriage  which,  in  the 
peasant's  language,  w^ould  make  'an  honest  woman'  of 
you.  Ugh!"  exclaimed  Douglas  in  extreme  disgust. 

"Have  patience,  dear  Willie!  All  things  considered, 
were  they  not  right?"  gently  suggested  Eglantine. 

William  Douglas  did  not  answer.  He  was  grinding 
his  teeth,  but  whether  he  was  grinding  the  problem,  or 
grinding,  in  imagination,  those  who  first  propounded  it 
to  Eglantine  was  not  quite  clear. 

"Willie,"  she  whispered  at  length,  "there  was  some 
thing  else  that  complicated  matters.  There  was — a 
child." 

"A  child!"  he  echoed,  in  a  sudden  and  strange  com 
mingling  of  emotions. 

She  hid  her  face  upon  his  shoulder  and  wept. 

"Where  is  the  child  ?"  at  length  he  murmured. 

"Until  to-day,  I  believed  him  to  be  in  heaven.  Now 
I  doubt." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  dear  Eglantine,  speak  more 
clearly!"  cried  Douglas,  deeply  agitated. 

"Dr.  Seton  attended  me  in  my  confinement,  and  also 
took  away  our  child  to  put  it  out  to  nurse.  I  was  ill 


74  THE  LOST  HEIK 

and  delirious  for  many  days  after  its  birth.  When  I 
came  to  myself  and  asked  for  my  child,  I  was  told  that 
it  was  dead,  and  that  it  was  best  it  should  be  so." 

"The  brutes!" 

"Nay,  you  know  you  were  supposed  to  have  been 
murdered,  and  our  marriage  unacknowledged." 

"Well,  dearest— what  next?" 

"I  believed  them !  I  believed  my  child  to  be  dead  un 
til  to-day.  To-day,  since  I  have  heard  that  Dr.  Seton 
on  his  deathbed,  hearing  of  your  return,  anxiously  de 
sired  to  see  you  and  me  together,  to  divulge  some 
secret  nearly  concerning  us  both,  I  believe  that  my 
child  still  lives — my  poor  disowned  and  forsaken  child, 
that  I  thought  was  in  heaven!"  cried  Eglantine,  drop 
ping  her  head  on  her  husband's  shoulder  and  bursting 
into  tears. 

"There ;  I  will  weep  no  more,  dear  Willie.  I  will  go 
to  Aunt  Shetland  and  question  her  again,"  said  Eglan 
tine,  wiping  her  eyes. 

And  during  the  rest  of  their  ride,  Eglantine  gave  a 
more  detailed  account  of  all  that  had  happened  to  her 
self  during  the  long  absence  of  her  husband,  and  then, 
in  turn,  she  received  from  him  the  history  of  his  own 
dreary  captivity  among  the  Indians  of  the  plains. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they  got 
back  to  Trosach  Castle. 

When  the  young  people  entered  the  morning-parlor, 
they  found  there  Lady  Margaret  Douglas  alone. 

She  arose  smilingly  to  greet  them. 

"Where  is  my  Aunt  Shetland,  dear  Meg?"  inquired 
Eglantine. 

"She  returned  to  her  own  room,  immediately  after 
receiving  the  adieus  of  the  Ornochs,"  answered  Lady 
Margaret. 

"Is  she  not  well?"  uneasily  inquired  Eglantine. 

Lady  Margaret  smiled. 

"She  is  well,  I  think — in  health,  at  least,"  she  said. 

"But  not  in  temper,"  added  Mr.  Douglas,  with  an  an 
swering  smile. 

"Well  or  ill,  I  must  see  her  immediately,  if  possible. 
Willie,  I  cannot  rest  for  a  moment  in  the  suspense  and 


THE  LOST  HEIR  75 

anxiety  I  have  been  suffering  ever  since  the  doctor 
failed  to  communicate  his  secret  to  us." 

"Ah,  the  doctor !  I  hope  you  found  him  better,"  put 
in  Lad}7  Margaret. 

"We  left  him  dead,"  answered  Mr.  Douglas,  gravely. 

"Ah,  poor  man!  I  never  knew  him,  but  I  have  al 
ways  heard  him  well  spoken  of." 

"Willie,  stay  here  and  improve  you  acquaintance 
with  our  kinswoman,  while  I  go  and  find  my  aunt," 
said  Eglantine  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  passed  out  of  the 
room. 

She  went  upstairs,  and  then  straight  to  the  door  of 
the  anteroom  leading  to  Lady  Shetland's  private  apart 
ments.  The  door  was  fastened;  but  when  Eglantine 
knocked  it  was  opened  by  Gillis,  Lady  Shetland's  own 
woman. 

"I  wish  to  see  my  aunt,"  said  Eglantine,  perceiving 
that  the  woman  held  the  door  ajar,  and  stood  within  it 
as  if  to  bar  entrance. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  me  leddy,  but  her  leddyship  hae 
forbidden  me  to  admit  any  one  this  morning,"  said 
the  woman  respectfully. 

Eglantine  slept  long  that  night,  and  when  she 
reached  the  breakfast-room  next  morning  she  found  it 
quite  empty.  She  seated  herself  before  the  solitary 
cover  and  then  rang  for  breakfast.  It  was  promptly 
served  and  soon  dispatched.  And  then  Eglantine  went 
off  to  the  library,  as  the  most  likely  place  at  that  hour 
to  find  her  uncle,  who  was  now  the  most  powerful,  if 
not  the  most  disinterested,  friend  she  had  in  the  fam- 

iiy- 

She  found  him  closeted  with  William  Douglas. 

Both  gentlemen  arose  at  her  entrance,  and  Mr.  Doug 
las  embraced  her  and  led  her  to  a  seat  at  the  same 
table  with  themselves. 

"Mr.  Douglas  and  myself  have  come  to  an  under 
standing,  my  love,"  began  the  marquis.  "We  see  by 
this  morning's  paper  that  his  regiment  is  ordered  to 
India.  Now,  as  the  question  of  your  going  out  with 
him  to  risk  your  life  and  health  in  that  infernal  climate 
is  not  for  a  moment  to  be  entertained,  and,  as,  after 


76  THE  LOST  HEIK 

so  long  a  separation  and  so  brief  a  reunion,  the  thought 
of  his  leaving  you  again  is  not  for  an  instant  to  be  con 
sidered  as  possible,  I  have  advised  him  to  sell  out  his 
commission,  and  retire  from  the  army;  and  for  your 
sake  he  has  consented  to  do  so." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  and  so  grateful !  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  the  hateful  regiment  and  his  obligation  to  re 
port  for  duty.  But  now  I  am  so  glad!  I  never  even 
thought  of  it,  until  you  informed  me  he  is  going  to  sell 
out,"  said  Eglantine,  gleefully. 

"And  now  for  the  rest,  my  very  imprudent  boy  and 
girl ;  though  your  English  marriage,  privately  per 
formed  in  London  while  you  were  both  still  minors, 
publicly  acknowledged  in  Scotland,  now  that  one  of  you 
has  attained  his  majority,  may  be,  and  really  is,  so  bind 
ing  on  you  both,  in  Scotland,  that  it  could  not  be 
broken,  yet  it  ma}7  not  be  held  so  valid  in  England. 
You  will  have  large  possessions  and  interests  in  both 
kingdoms.  Therefore  I  deem  it  necessary  that  the 
marriage  ceremony  should  be  again  formally  solemn 
ized  between  you,  according  to  the  ritual  of  the  Church 
of  England.  It  should  be  done  at  once  by  special 
license.  So,  if  you  please,  we  will  start  for  London 
without  loss  of  time — I,  you,  Douglas  and  any  attend 
ant  you  may  wish  to  select.  Lady  Shetland,  I  grieve 
to  say,  cannot  leave  her  guests  to  go  with  us." 

Neither  of  the  young  people  said  that  they  could 
easily  dispense  with  her  ladyship's  company,  but  both 
perhaps  thought  so. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Eglantine,"  continued  the 
marquis,  "that  I  have  talked  over  the  matter  with  Lady 
Shetland,  and  she  favors  my  views  so  much  as  even  to 
express  some  regret  that  she  cannot  be  your  chaperon 
to  London." 

Here  Eglantine  looked  so  astonished  that  the  mar 
quis  smiled,  and  added: 

"Ah,  well,  I  did  not  mean  to  give  you  a  riddle  to 
solve,  so  I  will  even  solve  it  for  you.  I  proposed  to  her 
ladyship  another,  and  even  a  wealthier  bride,  for  her 
favorite  nephew.  Yes,  Eglantine,  you  may  open  your 


THE  LOST  HEIB  77 

eyes,  but  there  is  an  heiress  now  in  England  of  double 
your  wealth.    What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  should  be  very  glad  if  Lord  Ornoch  should  marry 
any  lady  who  would  be  likely  to  make  him  happy.  But 
who  is  she,  then,  uncle,  dear?" 

"Miss  Chimboza,  the  daughter  of  General  Chimboza, 
of  the  Honorable  East  India  Company's  service.  The 
general  married  a  begum  of  enormous,  of  fabulous 
wealth.  She  brought  him  several  hundred  millions  of 
pounds,  and  several  children,  but  all  the  latter  died  ex 
cept  the  youngest — this  girl,  Hinda — whom  he  sent  to 
England  to  be  brought  up.  She  was  educated  at  a  first- 
class  ladies'  school  at  Brighton.  The  general  has  re 
tired  from  the  army,  and  come  with  his  dark  wife  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  England.  They  have 
taken  their  daughter  from  school,  and  are  now  all  three 
stopping  at  the  Morley  House  in  London.  You  are 
aware  that  there  is  scarcely  anybody  left  in  London  at 
this  season,  and  so,  of  course,  they  see  but  very  little 
society.  But,  as  the  general  had  been  my  classmate 
at  college,  as  soon  as  I  saw  his  arrival  announced,  I 
called  to  see  him.  And,  of  course,  there  being  no  one 
else  in  London,  as  I  told  you,  we  soon  renewed  our  in 
timacy." 

k'Is  Miss  Chimboza  pretty?  Tell  me  how  she — the 
heiress,  looks?"  said  Eglantine. 

"I  shall  leave  that  for  you  to  say.  And,  now,"  con 
cluded  the  marquis,  looking  at  his  watch,  "I  ordered 
the  carriage  to  be  at  the  door  immediately  after  lunch 
to  take  us  to  Seton,  so  as  to  be  in  time  to  meet  the 
Stirling  coach.  We  may  thus  reach  Glasgow  in  time  to 
secure  the  night  express  train  to  London.  You  have 
three  hours,  Eglantine.  Can  you  be  ready  in  that 
time?" 

"I  could  be  ready  in  less  than  half  that  time,"  said 
the  young  lady,  flying  off  to  announce  the  sudden  jour 
ney  to  old  Elspeth,  whom  she  had  resolved  to  take  with 
her. 


78  THE  LOST  HEIR 

CHAPTER  X. 

A  MEETING  AT  THE  CHURCH. 

Lady  Shetland  had  a  brief  interview  with  Eglantine, 
in  which  she  expressed  regret  that  she  could  not  ac 
company  the  young  people  and  witness  the  marriage 
ceremony,  but  hoped  that  all  manner  of  good  luck 
would  follow.  .,,  ,, 

Eglantine  accepted  her  ladyship's  regrets  with  all 
sincerity,  but  she  upset  the  calm  of  the  interview  by 

5U"Oh)  Aunt  Shetland,  pray  tell  me,  does  that  poor 
child  of  mine  still  live?" 

But  Lady  Shetland  was  equal  to  the  occasion,  and 
she  answered,  according  to  her  own  belief,  that 
child  was  indeed  dead. 

"Then  what  could  have  been  the  doctor's  secret/ 
inquired  Eglantine,  meditatively. 

-Who  can  tell?  No  secret  at  all,  perhaps.  A  dying 
man's  dream,  most  probably.  Give  yourself  no  further 
concern  about  it,  Eglantine." 

"I  cannot  so  easily  dismiss  the  subject  from  my 
mind     Aunt  Shetland,  were  it  possible  for  a  departed 
Tpirit  to  return  to  this  world,  I  think  that  man's ;  spirit 
would  return  to  tell  the  secret  he  tried  and  failed  to 
tell  in  life!"  said  Eglantine,  solemnly. 
"What  nonsense  you  talk,  my  dear!    Come  in! 
The  last  words  were  addressed  to  some  one  without, 
who  was  knocking  at  the  door. 
Lady  Margaret  Douglas  walked  into  the  room. 
"You  have  come  to  bid  me  good-by,  Meg.    I  thank 
you,  dear;  but  I  would  not  have  gone  without  seeing 
YOU!"  said  Eglantine,  smiling. 

"No  •  I  have  come  to  ask  leave  to  go  with  you.    I  have 
just  received  a  letter  from  my  father,  calling  me  to 

''  -id  the  marchioness  and 
he  says,  to  see  his  'little 


THE  LOST  HEIR  79 

Maggie.'  He  adds,  that  I  may  return  here  again  in  a 
few  days  to  complete  my  visit.  Now,  may  I  go  with 
you?"  asked  Lady  Margaret. 

"May'  you  go  with  me,  dear  Meg?     Of  course,  I 
shall  be  overjoyed  to  have  you!"  answered  Eglantine 

and 


"Besides,  I  promised  to  be  your  bridesmaid,  vou 
know.  And,  as  I  am  in  the  secret,  and,  as,  no  matter 
how  quietly  the  ceremony  may  be  performed,  you  inav 
want  one  attendant  at  your  marriage,  I  think  I  must 
keep  my  word,"  added  Lady  Margaret,  archly. 

"You  are  a  darling,  Meg,  and  I  am  delighted,"  re 
plied  Eglantine;  "but  you  are  quite  prepared?"  she  in 
quired,  dubiously. 

"Oh,  quite!  My  maid  has  packed  up  all  I  need  for 
the  journey,  and  is  waiting  outside  with  my  hat  and 
cloak  on  her  arm." 


r  i  you  are  rea11^  S°in£  to  leave  us  »o  suddenly, 
Lady  Margaret?"  inquired  the  marchioness,  with  a 
show  of  regret  as  sincere  as  it  was  polite. 

"Only  for  a  few  days,  dear  Lady  Shetland.  Then  I 
shall  be  so  pleased  to  come  back,  if  you  will  permit  me  " 
You  are  a  dear,  good  girl!  And  we  shall  look  for 
your  return  with  much  pleasure.  And  now  we  will  go 
down.  The  lunch  bell  rang  five  minutes  since,"  said 
the  marchioness,  leading  the  way. 

When  they  left  the  table  the  carriage  was  announced 

Their  adieus  were  soon  said.  And  then  the  marquis 
with  Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  and  Lieutenant  Douglas 
with  Eglantine,  entered  the  carriage  that  was  to  take 
them  to  the  village  of  Seton  to  meet  the  stage  coach 

Eglantine's  nurse,  Lady  Margaret's  maid,  the  mar 
quis  valet,  and  Mr.  Douglas'  groom  followed  in  a 
chaise. 

They  reached  Stirling  in  good  time  to  catch  the 
tram  for  Glasgow,  where  they  took  a  whole  compart 
ment  in  a  first-class  carriage  of  the  night  express 
tram  for  London. 

It  was  very  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  rising  sun 


80  THE  LOST  HEIR 

was  just  struggling  through  the  fog,  when  the  train 
slackened  speed  and  ran  slowly  into  the  station. 

They  went  across  to  the  hotel  and  engaged  apart 
ments     The  gentlemen  each  found  a  comfortable  cham 
ber,  and  the  two  young  ladies  took  a  double  bedded 
room  together.     And  the  whole  party  separated  and 
retired  to  rest,  and  enjoyed  several  hours  of  very  i 
freshing  sleep.  . 

At  nine  o'clock  they  all  met  again  at  breakfast  in  a 
private  parlor.  And,  after  breakfast,  they  ordered  two 
cabs  and  drove  to  the  Morley  House,  where  they  en- 
gaged  apartments  for  several  days. 

As  it  was  still  too  early  to  see  the  Chimbozas,  the 
marquis,  after  seeing  the  two  young  ladies  comfortably 
settled  in  their  apartments,  took  young  Douglas  and 
drove  off  to  Doctors'  Commons  to  procure  a  special 
license  for  the  immediate  marriage  of  the  lovers. 

Eglantine  and  Lady  Margaret  sat  together  in  then 
bedroom,  watching  old  Elspeth  and  young  Flora,  Lady 
Margaret's  maid,  unpack  their  wardrobe. 

*  We  have  been  negligent,  dear  Meg.  We  should  have 
gone  first  to  Cavendish  Square  to  inquire  for  yom 
father.  I  am  very  sorry  we  did  not  ;  but  the  error  shall 
be  repaired  as  soon  as  my  uncle  returns,"  said  Eglan- 


a  will  be  quite  time  enough,  dear.  Had  it  been 
possible  to  see  my  dear  papa  earlier,  I  should  myself 
have  suggested  that  you  should  set  me  down  at  his 
lodgingsTbut  he  never  rises  till  afternoon,"  replied 


changed  their  travellng  sui  ts 

for  morning  dresses,  and  went  into  their  private  parlor 
to  await  the  return  of  the  gentlemen. 

They  had  to  wait  much  longer  than  they  expected. 
It  was  one  o'clock,  post  meridian,  when  the  marquis 

^\S^tti+r  said  the  marquis,  as  he 
dropped  into  a  chair.  "First  to  Doctors'  Commons, 
where  we  procured  a  special  license;  next  to  Hanover 
Square,  to  call  on  the  rector  of  St.  George's  to  engage 
his  services  for  to-morrow  at  eleven  o'clock;  then  to 


THE  LOST  HEIR  81 

Cavendish  Square,  to  see  our  friend  the  duke  and  to  re 
port  our  arrival,  my  dear,  and  also  to  ask  him  to  be  one 
of  our  witnesses  at  the  marriage  to-morrow." 

"I  hope  you  found  dear  papa  improving,  sir?"  said 
Lady  Margaret. 

''Improving  so  fast,  my  dear,  that  he  promised  to 
join  us  at  the  church  to-morrow,  in  behalf  of  his  kins 
man  and  heir-at-law,  Willie  here !  Also,  he  sends  by  me 
his  permission  to  you  to  remain  with  your  young  friend. 
Eglantine,  until  after  the  marriage;  furthermore,  he 
insists  that  Mr.  Douglas  shall  be  his  guest  in  the  in 
terim.  So  this  young  gentleman  will  only  stop  to  dine 
with  us  and  then  return  to  Cavendish  Square,  whence 
the  duke  will  bring  him  in  his  own  carriage  to  the 
church." 

As  the  marquis  spoke  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door, 
followed,  on  permission  given,  by  the  entrance  of  the 
waiter. 

"Send  my  own  servant  here,"  said  his  lordship. 

In  a  few  moments  the  marquis'  man  made  his  ap 
pearance. 

"Give  me  a  card,  dear,"  said  his  lordship.  And  when 
Eglantine  had  produced  the  litle  slip  of  pasteboard 
from  her  card-case,  he  added  it  to  his  own,  put  both 
into  an  envelope,  and  gave  them  to  his  servant,  say 
ing: 

"Here,  take  these  to  General  Chimboza's  apart 
ments." 

The  man  bowed  and  went  on  his  errand. 

"I  have  penciled  a  line  asking  the  Chimbozas  to  call 
on  us  as  soon  as  may  be  convenient  to  them,"  said  the 
marquis,  in  explanation. 

He  had  scarcely  ceased  to  speak  when  the  door  was 
opened  and: 

"General  Chimboza,"  announced. 

A  fine,  tall,  broad-shouldered,  martial-looking  old 
man  he  was,  w^ith  a  noble  face,  once  fair,  but  now  deeply 
bronzed  by  the  Indian  sun,  and  framed  in  with  a  full 
suit  of  flowing,  snow-white  hair  and  beard.  He  ad 
vanced,  smiling,  with  both  hands  outstretched  toward 
the  marquis,  who  arose  and  went  to  meet  him. 


82  THE  LOST  HEIK 

"I  am  equally  pleased  and  surprised  to  see  you  back 
so  soon,"  said  the  general,  cordially  shaking  the  hands 
of  the  marquis. 

"Thanks.    I  hope  I  find  you  quite  well?" 

"Never  better  in  my  life." 

"And  Mrs.  and  Miss  Chimboza?" 

"Capital,  both  of  them.  They  are  out  shopping.  I 
think  they  will  never  tire  of  shopping.  If  we  do  not 
find  a  settled  home  soon,  we  shall  have  to  'warehouse' 
their  purchases.  But  I  am  wondering  all  this  time  to 
see  you  back,"  added  the  general,  in  a  half  interroga 
tive  manner. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  whole  of  my  errand  presently.  A 
part  of  it  is  to  bring  you  an  invitation  from  Lady  Shet 
land,  praying  that  you  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Chimboza 
will  honor  us  with  your  company  at  Trosach  Castle  for 
a  few  weeks.  Come!  I  even  hope  to  take  you  back 
with  me." 

"Thanks,  old  friend!  That  would  be  a  capital  pro 
gramme.  And,  in  fact,  I  do  not  know  why  we  have 
stopped  in  town  so  long  while  looking  about  for  an  op 
portunity  of  purchasing  a  country  seat,  unless  it  is 
that,  after  India,  we  do  not  find  London  so  hot  as 
others  complain  that  it  is." 

"You  will  find  it  cool  enough  in  the  Highlands," 
said  the  marquis.  "But  come,  let  me  introduce  you 
to  my  young  friends,"  he  added,  taking  the  general 
across  the  room,  and  presenting  him  to  Lady  Linlith- 
gow,  Lady  Margaret  Douglas  and  Lieutenant  Douglas. 

The  general  politely  expressed  his  pleasure  at  form 
ing  their  acquaintance,  and  his  regret  that  his  own 
ladies  happened  to  be  out  of  the  house  at  this  mo 
ment,  but  his  assurance  that  they  would  call  as  soon 
as  they  should  come  in. 

After  a  little  more  conversation  the  general  took  his 
friend  across  to  his  sunny  smoking-room  and  there  the 
marquis  told  him  why  the  lovers  had  been  brought  to 
town  and  the  reason  for  a  quiet  wedding. 

The  general  expressed  his  readiness  to  assist  as  a 
witness  at  the  ceremony  and  promised  to  be  on  hand 


THE  LOST  HEIR  83 

at  eight  o'clock  that  evening  with  his  wife  and  daugh 
ter. 

And  then  the  marquis  took  leave. 

He  returned  to  the  drawing-room  of  his  own  party, 
where  he  found  lunch  and  the  ladies  waiting  for  him. 

After  lunch,  the  marquis  and  the  young  lieutenant 
went  out  again  on  business  touching  the  connection 
of  the  latter  with  his  regiment.  They  found  that  the 
place  of  William  Douglas  had  been  supplied  for  many 
months  past  by  a  young  gentleman  who  had  been  ga 
zetted  as : 

"Mr.  Augustus  Ibbetson,  commissioned  lieutenant  in 
the Regiment  of  Foot,  vice  Mr.  William  Doug 
las,  dead.'7 

But  as  Mr.  Douglas  had  come  to  life  again,  there 
were  certain  forms  to  be  observed  before  he  could  be 
free  to  go  upon  his  bridal  tour.  These  were  attended 
to  that  afternoon ;  and  then  William  Douglas  returned 
with  an  easy  mind  to  spend  the  evening  with  his 
friends. 

They  dined  en  famille. 

After  dinner  they  remained  in  waiting  to  receive 
the  Chimbozas. 

At  eight  o'clock  punctually,  and  according  to  prom 
ise,  the  visitors  were  announced.  And  the  general  and 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Chimboza  entered  the  room.  The  gen 
eral  we  have  already  described.  Mrs.  Chimboza  was  a 
tall,  very  stout  and  very  dark  woman,  with  a  quantity 
of  blue-black  curls  heaped  up  on  her  forehead,  under 
many  folds  of  a  fine  white  India  muslin  turban.  And, 
although  this  was  midsummer,  her  form  was  covered 
with  a  gorgeous  camel's  hair  shawl,  worth  a  small  prin 
cipality.  This  slid  from  her  shoulders  as  she  seated 
herself,  revealing  a  richly  bejeweled  dress,  half  Eng 
lish,  half  Indian  in  style,  and  altogether  indescrib 
able. 

Miss  Chimboza  was  singularly  beautiful,  with  a  tall 
and  slender  form,  an  elegant  and  graceful  mien,  a 
small,  shapely  head,  covered  with  silky,  jet-black  ring 
lets  that  hung  down  far  below  her  girdle;  with  clear, 
dark  complexion,  and  delicate  and  regular  features. 


84:  THE  LOST  HEIR 

She  wore  a  dress  that  was  well  suited  to  her  singular 
style  of  beauty — an  Indian  fabric  of  thin,  black  tissue, 
sprigged  with  slight  gold  flowers,  and  a  single  large 
blazing  ruby  on  her  bosom. 

Our  young  people  were  struck  with  surprise;  and 
not  more  by  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  young  Anglo- 
Indian,  as  by  its  great  peculiarity.  They  almost  ex 
pected  to  find  something  bizarre  in  her  manners  as 
there  certainly  was  in  her  personal  appearance;  but 
Miss  Chimboza  had  been  brought  up  and  educated  in 
a  fashionable  young  ladies'  boarding-school  at  Brighton 
and  she  talked  and  acted  much  as  other  well-bred 
girls  do. 

The  evening  passed  very  pleasantly  for  all  parties. 

The  litle  company  separated  at  a  late  hour.  The 
Chimbozas  went  to  their  own  apartments,  Mr.  Douglas 
to  Cavendish  Square,  and  our  own  party  to  their  sev 
eral  rooms  to  prepare  by  a  good  night's  rest  for  the 
great  event  of  the  morning. 

Lady  Linlithgow  and  Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  from 
choice,  occupied  together  the  same  suite  of  apartments, 
consisting  of  bed-chamber,  dressing-room  and  bath 
room. 

They  arose  early  in  the  morning,  and  had  a  tray  of 
tea  and  toast  brought  to  them  in  their  room.  After 
partaking  of  this  refreshment,  they  put  themselves  in 
the  hands  of  their  attendants  to  be  dressed  for  the 
coming  ceremony. 

When  they  reached  the  church  and  drew  up  before 
its  entrance,  they  found  other  carriages  there — those 
of  the  Duke  of  Cheviot  and  of  General  Chimboza. 
Their  occupants  had  already  alighted  from  them  and 
gone  into  the  church. 

The  marquis  conducted  his  fair  charges  into  the 
vestibule  of  the  church,  where  they  found  the  Duke  of 
Cheviot,  Lieutenant  Douglas  and  Captain  Francis 
Harry,  of  the  Royal  Guards,  waiting  for  them. 

The  marquis  presented  the  duke  to  his  future  niece. 
His  grace  saluted  Eglantine,  and  said  that  he  should 
be  happy  to  welcome  her  into  the  Douglas  family.  He 
then  embraced  his  daughter,  Lady  Margaret,  and 


THE  LOST  HEIR  85 

finally  presented  them  to  both,  Captain  Francis  Harry, 
who  had  come  to  act  as  best  man  to  the  bridegroom. 

Then  the  bridal  procession  formed  in  the  following 
order:  Captain  Francis  Harry  and  Lady  Margaret 
Douglas,  as  best  man  and  bridesmaid ;  Lieutenant  Wil 
liam  Douglas  and  Lady  Linlithgow,  bridegroom  and 
bride;  the  Duke  of  Cheviot  and  the  Marquis  of  Shet 
land. 

The  procession  passed  up  the  middle  aisle  and  formed 
in  a  semi-circle  before  the  altar,  where  the  rector  and 
his  clerk  were  awaiting  the  bridal  party.  In  a  front 
pew  sat  the  Chimbozas,  looking  on  with  interest  upon 
the  first  English  wedding  they  had  been  called  to  wit 
ness  for  many  years. 

The  ceremony  commenced  and  proceeded  with  due 
solemnity. 

At  its  close,  when  the  bridegroom  had  saluted  his 
bride,  the  Duke  of  Cheviot  again  took  her  in  his  arms, 
kissed  her  and  welcomed  her  into  his  family.  The 
Chimbozas  came  forward  with  hearty  congratulations. 
And  then  the  whole  party  proceeded  to  the  vestry  to 
set  their  signatures  to  the  marriage  register.  After 
this,  and  after  a  few  more  congratulations  and  kindly 
wishes,  they  all  left  the  church  to  re-enter  their  car 
riages. 

There  was,  for  some  unforeseen  reason,  some  little 
delay  in  bringing  up  Mr.  Douglas'  carriage,  so  that 
really  all  the  little  company  were  seated  in  their  re 
spective  equipages  before  Mr.  Douglas7  carriage  could 
come  up.  While  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  stood 
together  waiting  for  it,  Eglantine's  ear  was  caught  by 
the  plaintive  wail  of  a  young  child — a  wail  that  went 
to  her  heart. 

She  turned  her  eyes  in  the  direction  whence  the 
sound  came,  and  she  saw,  sitting  upon  the  curbstone,  a 
beggar  woman,  having  upon  her  lap  the  most  pitiable 
object,  the  bride  thought,  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life — 
a  poor  litle  babe  some  four  or  five  months  old,  so  pale 
and  thin,  and  such  a  mere  skeleton,  that  its  little  fair 
head  seemed  preternaturally  large,  as  it  lay  over  the 
knee  of  the  woman,  and  hung  back  as  by  its  own 


I 


86  THE  LOST  HEIR 

weight.  A  fair,  sweet  face  it  had,  with  a  look  of  pa« 
tient  suffering  on  it  that  only  holy  infancy  can  wear. 

Eglantine  obeyed  an  irresistible  impulse,  and  left  her 
husband's  side  to  approach  the  infant. 

The  woman  who  had  it  in  charge,  seeing  the  lady 
draw  near,  stretched  out  an  emaciated  hand  and  raised 
a  pair  of  large,  black,  fierce,  hungry-looking  eyes  to  her 
face,  and  whined: 

"A  penny,  for  the  love  of  the  Lord,  my  lady." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Eglantine,  hastily  taking  out  her 
purse,  but  never  removing  her  eyes  from  the  baby, 
whose  pure  wan  face  and  helpless,  hanging  head  so 
deeply  moved  her  pity — "yes,  yes;  but,  oh!  do  lift  that 
poor  baby's  head  on  your  arm  and  support  it.  See 
how  painfully  it  droops!"  she  added,  as  she  put  a  few 
silver  coins  in  the  hand  of  the  woman. 

"Come,  my  dear  Eglantine;  our  carriage  is  ready  at 
last,"  said  Mr.  Douglas,  who  had  followed  his  bride, 
and  stood  unobserved  until  now,  by  her  side. 

"Yes,  yes,  in  a  moment,"  said  the  lady,  who  could  not 
at  once  tear  herself  away  from  the  pathetic  scene  be 
fore  her.  And  she  stooped  and  put  her  own  delicately- 
gloved  hand  under  the  baby's  fair  head,  and  raised  it 
into  an  easier  position  on  the  woman's  lap.  And  as 
she  did  so  she  met  the  clear,  blue  eyes  of  the  little  one 
turned  full  upon  hers  with  that  mute,  pathetic  look 
that  is  so  touching  in  suffering  infancy. 

Eglantine  burst  into  tears,  and  emptied  her  purse  in 
the  lap  of  the  baby,  saying  to  the  woman: 

"Oh,  get  it  clean  clothes  and  nice  food  and  medicines, 
and  whatever  it  may  need,  and " 

"Come,  come,  Eglantine,  my  love !"  impatiently  urged 
the  bridegroom. 

"Yes,  in  one  instant."  Then,  turning  to  the  woman 
with  a  last  word,  she  said: 

"Leave  your  name  and  address  with  the  sexton  of 
this  church.  Say  I  told  you  to  do  so;  and  I  will  look 
you  up  when  I  come  back!  Now,  then,  Willie,  I  will 
go,"  she  added,  wiping  her  eyes  and  lowering  her  veil. 

"My  dear,  impulsive  Eglantine!"  said  Mr.  Douglas, 


THE  LOST  HEIR  87 

when  they  were  once  more  seated  together  in  their  car 
riage,  "if  you  succor  to  such  an  extent  every  beggar 
and  every  beggar's  babe  in  London,  you  will  have  your 
hands  and  heart  and  life  full." 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could,  Willie !  Oh,  why  are  inno 
cent  children  called  to  suffer  so  much!"  she  sighed, 
gazing  from  the  window  of  her  carriage  upon  the  pa 
thetic  face  of  the  babe,  that  haunted  her,  and  con 
tinued  to  haunt  her,  for  many  a  day.  And  well  it 
might,  for  it  was  the  face  of  her  own  outcast,  dis 
owned,  unknown  child! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    HAUNTING    LITTLE    FACE. 

On  arriving  at  the  Morley  House,  Mr.  Douglas  con 
ducted  his  bride  to  the  drawing-room  of  the  private 
suite  of  apartments  appropriated  to  her  own  party, 
and  where  the  few  wedding  guests  were  assembled. 

Lady  Margaret  Douglas  met  her  at  the  door,  and 
took  her  away  at  once  to  the  chamber,  to  take  off  her 
hat  and  veil  for  the  breakfast  that  was  laid  in  tlie 
private  dining-room. 

"I  declare,  you  have  been  weeping!"  said  Lady  Mar 
garet,  as  she  gazed  into  the  tear-stained  countenance  of 
her  friend. 

"Well,  and  why  not?  Is  it  not  indeed  de  riguer  that 
a  bride  should  weep?"  inquired  Eglantine,  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

"I  suppose  so;  but  it  is  also  de  riguer  that  a  bride 
should  look  'never  so  beautiful'  as  on  her  bridal  day; 
and  red  eyes  are  not  beautiful;  so  just  bathe  them  in 
rose  water,  and  then  come  down  with  me  to  break 
fast,"  said  Lady  Margaret. 

Eglantine  followed  her  advice,  and  then  went  down 
into  the  drawing-room,  attended  by  Lady  Margaret. 

There  again  she  was  received  with  affectionate  con 
gratulations,  and  soon  the  doors  of  the  adjoining  room 
were  thrown  open,  displaying  an  elegantly  appointed 
breakfast  table. 


88  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Mr.  Douglas  gave  his  arm  to  his  bride,  Captain 
Frank  Harry  gave  his  to  the  bridesmaid,  the  Duke  of 
Cheviot  escorted  the  begum,  the  Marquis  of  Shetland 
led  Miss  Chimboza,  and  General  Chimboza  followed 
with  Miss  Judson,  later  governess  and  now  companion 
to  the  heiress,  and  in  this  order  they  entered  the  break 
fast  room  and  sat  down  to  the  table,  the  Marquis  of 
Shetland  presiding  at  one  end,  having  on  his  right 
hand  the  bride  and  groom  and  on  his  left  the  brides 
maid  and  groomsman;  the  Duke  of  Cheviot  presiding 
at  the  other  end,  having  on  his  right  hand  the  begum 
and  General  Chimboza  and  on  his  left  Miss  Judson. 

The  party  was  small  but  merry ;  a  due  proportion  of 
cake  was  eaten  and  wine  drank  in  honor  of  the  bride 
and  bridegroom;  speeches  were  made  and  toasts  were 
offered,  and  so  the  feast  was  protracted  until  the  strik 
ing  of  the  clock  warned  the  newly-married  pair  that 
it  was  time  for  them  to  prepare  to  start,  in  order  to 
catch  the  express  train. 

They  arose  from  the  table. 

Lady  Margaret  Douglas  attended  Lady  Linlithgow 
to  her  chamber,  where  the  later  put  on  her  gray  trav 
eling  hat,  veil  and  gloves. 

They  then  went  downstairs,  where  their  friends  were 
waiting  to  take  leave  of  them. 

Their  baggage  had  already  gone  forward  to  the  sta 
tion,  under  the  charge  of  Elspeth  and  James.  And 
they  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  bid  good-by  to  their  circle 
and  enter  the  fly  that  was  engaged  to  take  them  to  the 
station.  Their  desination  was  Penzance,  on  the  coast 
of  Cornwall,  where  they  proposed  to  spend  the  honey 
moon. 

After  the  departure  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  the 
Duke  of  Cheviot  arose  to  take  leave,  with  the  intention 
of  taking  his  daughter,  Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  with 
him. 

"But  your  grace  will  remember  that  our  bright  Lady 
Margaret  is  pledged,  with  your  permission  to  return 
with  me  to  Trosach  Castle.  Lady  Shetland  will  ex 
pect  her,"  said  the  marquis,  affectionately  retaining  the 
hand  of  his  young  favorite. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  89 

The  duke  looked  fondly  down  upon  the  child  of  his 
old  age,  and  hesitated. 

"You  do  not  like  to  part  with  her  again.  And 
neither  would  you  like  to  make  her  break  her  word. 
Well,  then,  there  is  but  one  way.  Your  grace  is  cer 
tainly  able  to  travel  now.  You  must,  therefore,  be 
pleased  to  accept  our  often-urged  invitation  to  spend  a 
few  weeks  with  us  at  Trosach  Castle,"  said  the  mar 
quis. 

The  duke  looked  from  the  cordial  face  of  his  would- 
be  host  to  the  pleading  eyes  of  his  daughter,  and  then 
answered : 

Well,  well;  thanks!  I  think  I  may  inflict  myself  and 
my  infirmities  upon  you  for  a  season.  Good-morning. 
You  and  your  friends  dine  with  us  to-morrow  evening, 
remember — eight  o'clock.  Come,  Maggie."  And  so 
saying,  his  grace  bowed  to  the  circle  and  led  his 
daughter  from  the  room. 

One  pair  of  eyes,  full  of  admiration,  followed  the 
young  lady.  They  belonged  to  Captain  Francis  Harry, 
of  the  Royal  Guards. 

The  Marquis  of  Shetland  noticed  this,  and  good- 
naturedly  determined  to  add  the  young  guardsman  to 
his  summer  party  in  the  Highlands.  So  when  the 
captain,  after  a  little  polite  delay  at  the  side  of  Miss 
Chimboza,  made  his  retiring  bow,  the  marquis  said: 

"By  the  way,  Harry,  it  would  give  me  great  pleas 
ure  to  see  you  at  Trosach  Castle.  The  game  is  plenti 
ful  there,  and  really  requires  a  little  trimming.  You 
like  field  sports?" 

"Who  does  not?"  laughed  the  young  officer. 

"Then  come  and  shoot  over  my  moors.  This  is  the 
very  last  of  July,  you  know,  and  in  September  the 
sport  is  very  fine." 

"Thanks,  marquis.  I  should  indeed  take  much  pleas 
ure  in  accepting  your  frank  invitation,  if  I  could  get 
leave." 

"Is  there  any  doubt  about  that?  Then  I  will  get 
you  leave.  My  word  is  still  worth  something  at  head 
quarters,"  said  the  marquis. 


90  THE  LOST  HEIR 

The  young  guardsman  thanked  him  again,  bowed 
and  withdrew. 

"There,"  said  the  marquis  to  himself,  "I  maneu 
vered  that  as  well  as  any  matchmaking  old  dowager 
of  them  all  could  have  done.  Mag  is  beautiful  and 
high-born,  but  portionless.  He  is  the  heir-at-law  of 
his  granduncle,  old  Elphinstone  of  Harewood,  and 
will  some  day  come  into  a  cool  thirty  thousand  a 
year." 

The  Marquis  of  Shetland  remained  five  days  longer 
in  London,  waiting  the  convenience  of  his  invited  com 
pany,  who  were  to  be  his  fellow-travelers. 

At  length,  on  the  Saturday,  the  party,  consisting  of 
the  Duke  of  Cheviot,  with  the  Lady  Margaret  Doug 
las,  the  general,  with  Mrs.  and  Miss  Chirnboza  and 
Miss  Judson,  Captain  Frank  Harry  and  their  host, 
the  Marquis  of  Shetland,  met  by  mutual  appointment 
in  the  first-class  waiting  room  of  the  railway  station. 
This  company  of  eight  persons  engaged  an  entire  com 
partment  of  a  first-class  carriage  for  themselves,  and 
so  formed  a  very  sociable  and  pleasant  traveling  party 
for  that  long  northern  journey. 

It  passed  without  incident  worth  recording,  unless 
the  devotion  of  the  gallant  young  guardsman  to  the 
beautiful  Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  a  devotion  that  was 
noticed  without  disapprobation  by  her  friends,  might 
be  deemed  worthy  of  mention. 

It  was  late  when  they  arrived  at  Trosach  Castle. 

The  guests  staying  at  the  house  had  all  retired  to 
rest.  But  Lady  Shetland,  who  expected  the  party,  was 
waiting  up  to  welcome  them.  Supper  was  also  laid  in 
the  small  dining-room.  And  the  bedchambers  of  the 
travelers  were  ready  for  them. 

Lady  Shetland  received  this  large  accession  to  her 
company  with  her  usual  courtesy.  She  shook  hands 
with  General  Chimboza  and  Captain  Harry,  and  wel 
comed  them  to  Trosach  Castle.  She  kissed  Lady  Mar 
garet  Douglas,  and  whispered  that  Lady  Margaret  was 
at  home,  and  knew  where  to  find  her  suite  of  rooms, 
which  were  quite  prepared  for  her ;  and  then  she 


,THE  LOST  HEIR  91 

turned  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Chimboza,  and  herself  at 
tended  them  to  their  apartments. 

The  travelers  reassembled  at  the  supper  table,  where 
they  did  full  justice  to  the  luxuries  set  before  them. 

Then,  as  they  were  all  fatigued  from  their  long 
journey,  with  mutual  "good-nights"  they  separated 
and  retired  to  rest. 

A  large  party  assembled  in  the  breakfast  room  the 
next  morning.  The  Chimbozas  and  Captain  Harry 
were  presented  to  the  other  guests.  The  striking 
beauty  of  Hinda  Chimboza  created  an  instantaneous 
sensation,  as  Lady  Shetland  had  predicted  that  it 
would. 

The  young  people  of  the  party  were  all  out  on  the 
open  ground  lying  between  the  castle  and  the  lake, 
engaged  in  their  favorite  morning  pastime  of  archery, 
when  Lord  Ornoch's  boat  was  seen  crossing  the  lake  in 
the  direction  of  Trosach  Castle. 

As  soon  as  the  boat  touched  the  land,  the  young  earl, 
leaving  it  to  the  care  of  his  oarsmen,  leaped  ashore 
and  walked  toward  the  castle. 

He  raised  his  hat  as  he  joined  the  archery  party. 

Lady  Margaret  Douglas  presented  him  to  her  friend, 
Miss  Chimboza,  and  she  noted  with  secret  delight  his 
involuntary  gaze  of  admiration,  which  was,  however, 
quickly  withdrawn. 

Lady  Margaret  challenged  the  earl  to  take  a  part  in 
their  game,  and  compete  with  them  for  the  prize. 

He  smilingly  assented,  and  took  from  the  hands  of 
an  attending  groom  a  bow  and  a  quiver  of  arrows. 

"We  have  not  one  of  us  hit  the  bull's-eye  yet,  you 
see,"  said  Lady  Margaret,  pointing  to  the  distant  tar 
get,  whose  every  circle  was  well  specked  with  arrow 
marks,  but  whose  center  was  intact. 

Lord  Ornoch  selected  an  arrow,  fitted  it  to  his  bow, 
and  took  his  place  in  the  group  of  competitors  to  wait 
his  turn. 

"What  is  to  be  the  prize?"  he  inquired  of  his  fair 
friend. 

"A  small  golden  arrow  set  with  diamonds,"  said 
Lady  Margaret. 


92  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"And  what  would  be  the  use  of  such  a  toy?"  he 
smilingly  inquired. 

"Oh,  of  none  at  all  to  a  gentleman.  But  to  a  lady 
it  might  serve  as  a  brooch,  a  buckle,  or  even  as  a  hair 
pin.  There!  Now,  it's  your  turn,  my  lord.  See  if  you 
can  hit  the  center!"  she  added. 

The  young  earl  raised  his  bow,  took  aim,  drew  the 
string,  and  let  the  arrow  fly. 

It  quivered  in  the  very  center  of  the  circle. 

"He  has  hit  the  bull's-eye!" 

"Just  in  the  pupil!" 

"He  has  won!" 

"The  prize  is  Lord  Ornoch's!"  exclaimed  some  half- 
dozen  young  voices,  all  speaking  at  once. 

Lady  Shetland  held  the  prize  in  her  hands. 

The  archers  by  acclamation  awarded  it  to  Lord 
Ornoch,  as  the  successful  competitor. 

The  marchioness  beckoned  him  to  approach,  and, 
with  some  few  appropriate  words,  put  it  in  his  hands. 

He  bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  then,  looking 
around  and  seeing  Hinda  Chimboza  standing  apart, 
he  went  up  to  her,  and,  with  a  deep  bow,  begged  her  to 
honor  him  by  wearing  the  jewel  his  shaft  had  won. 

And  Lady  Shetland,  who,  from  her  seat,  saw  the  look 
of  admiration  with  which  the  offering  was  made,  and 
the  blush  of  delight  with  which  it  was  accepted,  au 
gured  well  for  her  matrimonial  scheme. 

After  the  archery  meeting  was  over,  the  whole  party 
returned  to  the  house  to  lunch. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  day,  and  during  the 
few  days  that  followed,  Lady  Shetland  had  reason  to 
congratulate  herself  on  the  fair  prospects  of  her  fa 
vorite  nephew. 

"Ornoch  may  not  be  able  to  forget  Eglantine  soon, 
but  he  is  certainly  very  much  pleased  with  Miss  Chim 
boza  and  as  for  the  girl  herself,  she  is  over  head  and 
ears  in  love  with  him,"  her  ladyship  remarked  to  Lord 
Shetland  one  morning  when  their  young  guests  had 
lef  them  tete-a-tete  in  the  drawing-room. 

"Yes;  I  agree  with  you.  And  Chimboza  looks  fa 
vorably  on  the  prospect  of  a  match  between  his  heiress 


THE  LOST  HEIR  93 

and  the  young  earl.    He  is  willing  to  gild  the  coronet 
with  his  gold,  if  only  the  coronet  rests  upon  the 
of  his  daughter.    But,  my  lady,  there  is  another  match 
brewing  here;  have  you  noticed?" 

"You  refer  to  Captain  Harry  and  Lady  Margaret 
Douglas?" 

"Yes :  and  a  very  good  match  it  will  be.  She  has 
rank,  beauty,  title,  but  no  money.  He  has  an  unblem 
ished  name,  an  honorable  position,  and  will  have 
wealth.  He  is  the  heir-at-law  of  his  uncle,  old  Elphin- 
stone  of  Harewood.  and  will  come  into  a  comfortable 
thirty  thousand  a  year  on  the  old  man's  death.  And 
I  have  no  doubt  that  if  Harry  marries  a  duke's  daugh 
ter,  Elphinstone  will  come  down  very  handsomely  in 
the  way  of  settlements." 

"He  will  have  good  reason  to  do  so,"  remarked  her 
ladyship. 

"Now  I  may  take  credit  for  having  made  that  match. 
I  am  getting  to  be  quite  an  old  woman  at  such  maneu 
vering.  It  is  diplomacy  in  its  dotage,  I  suppose," 
laughed  the  ex-ambassador,  jesting  at  his  own  ex 
pense. 

Now.  leaving  the  party  assembled  at  Trosach  Cas 
tle — the  elders  to  their  maneuverings.  the  youngers  to 
their  flirtations — and  leaving  also  the  newly-married 
pair  of  lovers  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  their  honeymoon 
on  the  wild  and  beautiful  coast  of  Cornwall,  we  must 
go  down  into  the  depths  of  human  life  to  look  after 
Eglantine's  outcast  child. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BABY    BENNY. 

The  beggar,  with  the  baby  on  her  breast,  remained 
seated  on  the  curbstone,  gazing  after  the  retreating 
form  of  the  lady  who  had  relieved  her  necessities,  until 
she  saw  her  enter  the  carriage,  and  saw  the  carriage 
drive  away. 


94  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Then  she  gathered  up  the  silver  and  gold  coins  that 
had  been  scattered  so  freely  upon  her  lap,  and  counted 
them. 

"Two  pounds  ten  in  sovereigns  and  half  sovereigns, 
and   seven   shillings   and   threepence  in  silver.     Two 
pounds,  seventeen  shillings  and  threepence!     Nearly 
three  pounds!     I  never  had  so  much  money  at  one 
time  in  my  life,  except  when  that  Scotch  doctor  gave 
me  ten  pounds.     Ten  pounds!     It  makes  me  gasp  to 
think  of  it  now — which  he  said  the  good  Christian  folk 
of  his  neighborhood  had  made  up  for  me!    I  never  be 
lieved  him.    And  I  never  could  guess  why  he  gave  me 
so  much  money;  no,  nor  where  the  money  came  from. 
But  one  don't  look  a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth.     And, 
moreover,  the  money  never  did  me  any  good,  for  it 
was  stolen  from  me  on  board  the  Shaft.  *  But  this  lady 
— why  does  she  give  me  so  much  money?    Ay,  that's 
easy  seen!     She's  from  the  country;  any  one  can  see 
that.    She's  not  used  to  sights  of  misery,  nor  hardened 
by  them.    Any  one  could  feel  that.    And  she's  rolling 
in  wealth.    Any  one  could  see  that.    And  she's  a  bride, 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long!    Any  one  can  feel  that. 
And  so  she  can't  abide  the  sight  of  poverty  and  suffer 
ing,  and  so  she  empties  her  purse  into  my  lap.    She'll 
not  do  the  like  again,  I'll  bet!    She'll  get  used  to  the 
world.    But  now,  while  I  think  of  it,  I'll  go  and  leave 
my  name  and  dwelling-place  with  the  sexton,  as  she 
bade  me;  and  I'll  be  given  in  charge  for  my  pains, 
maybe,  and  never  hear  any  more  of  the  open-handed 
lady,"  said  the  woman  to  herself,  as  she  arose,  laid  the 
languid  babe  over  her  bosom,  so  that  its  head  drooped 
over  her  shoulder,  and  so  walked  into  the  church. 

The  sexton,  much  surprised,  wrote  down  her  name 
with  the  utmost  good-nature,  though  he  considered  it 
wise  to  "just  mention  that  rich  folk  forget  easily." 

"Ay,  she'll  forget,"  sighed  the  woman;  "but  I  ha' 
done  as  she  bade  me,  anyway." 

With  which  philosophical  remark,  she  hitched  her 
baby  higher  on  her  shoulder  and  departed  for  her 
squalid  home  in  Junk  lane. 
The  child,  wearied  with  the  walk,  had  fallen  asleep 


THE  LOST  HEIR  95 

on  her  shoulder  long  before  she  reached  the  tenement 
where  she  lived. 

She  laid  it  down  on  the  poor  bed,  and  took  the  light 
shawl  from  her  shoulder  and  covered  it  up. 

Then  she  sat  down  in  the  rickety  rocking-chair,  and 
rocking  herself  slowly  to  and  fro,  began  to  sum  up  her 
case  of  Life  versus  Magdalene  Hurst. 

When  but  partially  recovered  from  the  united  effects 
of  her  pneumonia  and  confinement,  she  had  embarked 
on  the  steamer  Shaft  from  Killford  to  London. 

Two  misfortunes  befell  her  on  that  voyage  home. 

First,  in  the  changeable  April  weather,  she  took  a 
severe  cold  and  had  a  serious  relapse;  next  she  was 
robbed  of  the  ten  pounds  conscience  money  bestowed 
upon  her  by  the  doctor. 

Thus  she  reached  London,  ill  and  penniless,  and  bur 
dened  with  a  young  child. 

Worse  still,  she  found  her  aged  mother  bedridden 
with  rheumatic  fever,  and  obstinately  determined  not 
to  go  into  the  Union. 

Up  to  the  time  of  her  daughter's  return,  the  old 
creature  had  been  provided  for  by  "outside"  parochial 
aid,  and  by  the  good  offices  of  her  fellow-lodgers  of 
the  tenement-house.  After  that,  the  parish  aid  was 
still  continued;  but,  though  the  need  was  greater  than 
ever,  the  poor  fellow-lodgers  withdrew  their  help,  if 
not  their  sympathy. 

Madge  had  a  severe  struggle  with  illness  and 
poverty. 

The  broken  state  of  her  health  precluded  the  possi 
bility  of  her  recovering  her  situation  as  stewardess  of 
the  Shaft,  or  indeed  of  obtaining  any  other  employ 
ment. 

With  the  very  poor,  it  is  but  a  step  from  enforced 
idleness  to  beggary,  and  too  often  but  another  step 
from  beggary  to  crime,  or  to  death. 

One  by  one  the  poor  pieces  of  furniture  or  of  cloth 
ing  went  to  the  pawnbroker's,  to  be  pledged  for  the  few 
pence  that  was  to  procure  dry  bread  upon  which  they 
subsisted  from  day  to  day. 

WThenever  Madge  was  able  to  walk,  she  crept  out 


96  THE  LOST  HEIR 

with  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  found  her  way  to  some 
populous  thoroughfare,  where  she  sat  down  upon  some 
curbstone,  beseeching  a  passenger  for  a  penny,  when 
ever  she  dared  to  do  so,  begging  silently  with  every  fea 
ture  of  her  worn  face,  whenever  she  could  not  venture 
to  ask  charity  in  any  other  way. 

And  so  from  day  to  day,  she  picked  up  enough  to 
keep  two  wretched  souls  and  bodies  together. 

In  June  some  relief  came  in  this  manner:  the  poor 
old  mother  grew  better  and  went  about  again. 

Madge  Hurst  wished  that  she  and  the  child  and  all 
might  die;  but  as  Death  does  not  often  come  when 
called  for,  being  generally  absent  in  some  other  &cene 
where  he  is  not  at  all  wanted,  she  and  her  infant  bur 
den  lived  on  and  suffered  on,  until  we  found  them  on 
the  curbstone  near  the  front  of  St.  George's  Church,  as 
has  been  related  in  a  preceding  chapter. 

Now  Madge  sat  in  the  rickety  rocking-chair,  sum 
ming  up  her  case  and  counting  up  her  money — nearly 
three  pounds  in  all.  She  felt  rich;  she  had  never  had 
so  much  money  in  her  life  before,  except,  as  she  said, 
when  the  doctor  donated  her  ten  pounds,  which  never 
did  her  any  good,  because  the  note  had  been  stolen  on 
the  boat. 

"Now  I  can  get  back  my  things  from  the  pawn 
brokers,"  she  said;  "and  now  I  could  put  that  baby 
out  to  nurse  and  get  back  my  place  as  stewardess  of 
the  steamer,  if  only  it  wasn't  for  this  horrid  cough. 
I  doubt  if  Captain  Caird  would  take  me  with  this 
cough!  But,  anyways,  I  can  try,  and  I  will  try  just 
as  the  steamer  comes  in  again." 

While  she  was  thus  ruminating,  there  was  heard  the 
heavy  tramp  of  a  man's  step  ascending  the  stairs. 

It  was  much  too  common  an  occurrence  in  that  close 
ly  crowded  tenement-house,  where  the  inmates  were 
hourly  passing  up  and  down,  and  daily  indulging  in 
some  drunken  scuffle,  to  attract  any  attention  from 
Madge. 

Now,  however,  the  steps  ceased  at  her  own  door 
and  were  followed  by  a  smart  rap. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  97 

"Come  in,"  said  Madge,  expecting  to  see  some  one 
of  her  rude  and  rather  dangerous  neighbors. 

The  latch  was  lifted,  and  a  tall,  strong,  muscular- 
looking  man,  with  a  bull  neck,  a  large  head  covered 
with  a  shock  of  red  hair,  and  brutal  features,  somewhat 
relieved  now  by  an  expression  of  stupid  good  nature, 
entered  the  room. 

Madge  looked  up,  and  recognized  Tony  Brice,  one 
of  the  firemen  engaged  on  the  steamer  Shaft. 

"Well,  Madge,  old  gal,  I've  found  you  at  last,"  he 
said,  seating  himself  without  invitation  upon  the  rick 
ety  table,  which,  thanks  to  the  support  of  the  wall, 
did  not  give  way. 

"Why,  Tony,  I'm  surprised  to  see  you  here!"  ex 
claimed  the  woman,  staring  at  him,  for  he  had  never 
entered  her  doors  before. 

"And  no  ways  glad  to  see  me,  I'm  bound  to  say,  Mrs. 
Hurst,"  put  in  Tony,  twirling  his  old  hat  about. 

"Nay,  Tony;  I  never  said  that.  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  I  have  too  few  friends  in  the  world  not  to  be 
glad  to  see  them  I  have  got." 

"Thanky,  lass.  And  I  tell  you  this;  you  ain't  got 
no  better  friend  than  me  in  this  world.  Don't  you 
believe  me?" 

"I — yes,  I  believe  you,  Tony,"  said  the  woman,  hesi 
tatingly,  for  she  was  beginning  to  shrink  from  the 
friendly  advances  of  her  visitor. 

He  saw  that  shrinking,  perhaps,  and,  stupid  as  he 
was,  hastened  to  relieve  her  fears  by  saying: 

"Well,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  intrude  my  company 
on  you,  Mrs.  Hurst;  leastways  if  I  hadn't  a  had  a 
message  to  bring  to  you." 

"A  message  to  bring  me!"  exclaimed  the  woman,  in 
much  surprise. 

"Ay,  lass,  and  a  very  particular  one,  too." 

"A  message!  Is  it  from  the  captain?  Does  he  want 
me  to  come  back  and  be  his  stewardess  again?  I  can, 
you  know,  if  he  wants  me,"  said  Madge,  eagerly. 

"Nay,  it's  not  from  the  captain  I  bring  you  a  mes 
sage  neither ;  not  but  what  I  think  as  he  would  like  to 
have  you  back  again,  if  so  be  you  was  well  enough  to 


98  THE  LOST  HEIR 

do  the  duties,  for  he  hasn't  got  any  one  in  your  place, 
and  seems  to  be  a-keeping  on  it  open  for  you.  No ;  my 
message  ain't  from  the  captain,  though  it  may  bring 
you  as  much  good  luck  as  if  it  was.  But  it  is  not  from 
the  captain." 

"Then,  for  the  Lord's  sake,  who  is  it  from?  If  there 
is  any  hope  of  good  luck  in  it,  don't  keep  it  back  a 
minute,  but  tell  me  at  once,"  said  Madge,  impatiently. 

"Well,  then,  it  was  from  old  mother  Gaunt." 

"Jean  Gaunt,  the  old  woman  who  nursed  me  through 
my  sickness  at  Killford?" 

"Ay,  lass,  that's  her.  The  last  time  the  boat  stopped 
at  Killford,  on  her  voyage  back  to  London,  there  comes 
on  board  an  old  woman,  bent  with  age  and  weakness, 
and  she  asks  if  so  be  the  stewardess,  Magdalene  Hurst, 
could  be  seen.  I  happened  to  be  standing  by,  and 
told  her  that  you  had  never  been  able  to  take  your 
place  since  your  bad  illness." 

"She  nursed  me  through  that.    Go  on." 

"Yes;  so  she  said.  And  then  she  asked  did  any  one 
know  where  you  lived,  and  would  any  one  take  a  mes 
sage  to  you.  I  told  her  there  I  was  to  the  fore,  quite 
at  her  service  and  yours,  to  fetch  or  to  carry.  And 
then  she  says,  which  these  are  her  werry  words: 

"  'Tell  Magdalene  Hurst,'  says  she,  'if  so  be  she's 
only  able  to  crawl,  to  leave  everything  else  and  take 
the  baby  and  come  aboard  the  steamer,  and  come 
direct  to  Killford  by  the  next  trip ;  for  I  have  that  to 
tell  her  which  concerns  her  interests  in  this  world,  and 
mayhap  in  the  next,  too." 

"That  is  very  strange!"  said  Madge. 

"Ay,  it  were,  lass;  and  you'd  a  thought  it  was 
stranger  still,  if  you'd  seen  that  old  woman's  looks, 
and  heard  how  she  told  her  message  over  and  over 
again,  six  or  seven  times  at  least,  to  beat  it  into  my 
head." 

"I  think  I  ought  to  go,"  said  Madge,  hesitatingly. 

"I  think  ye  ought,  lass ;  and  as  for  the  money  to  pay 
your  passage,  don't  ye  let  that  be  a  hindrance,  so 
long  as  Tony  Brice  has  his  week's  pay  untouched,"  said 
the  fireman,  thrusting  his  hand  deep  into  the  recesses 


THE  LOST  HEIR  99 

of  his  trousers'  pocket,  and  drawing  forth  a  leathern 
purse,  from  which  he  poured  out  a  handful  of  silver 
and  copper  coins.  "There  now,  lass,  help  yourself." 

"Thanky,  Tony,  all  the  same,  but  I  have  got  some 
money  and  can  pay  my  own  way;  not  as  I  think  the 
captain  will  be  charging  his  old  stewardess  for  one 
trip  in  the  steerage  of  his  boat.  When  does  she  sail 
again,  Tony?" 

"To-morrow  morning  at  eight  o'clock.  And  I  wish 
I  could  come  to  fetch  ye,  old  gal,  but  I  shall  be  on 
the  ingine." 

"What  need  to  fetch  me,  Tony?  Don't  I  know  the 
way  to  my  own  old  ship?"  said  the  woman,  laughing. 

At  this  moment  there  came  a  wail  from  the  waking 
child  on  the  bed. 

Madge  went  and  took  it  up,  and  sat  down  with  it 
stretched  upon  her  lap. 

The  man  Brice  got  down  from  the  table,  and  drew 
an  old  deal  box  from  a  corner  up  to  the  side  of  the 
woman,  seated  himself  upon  it,  and  looked  attentively 
at  the  child. 

"Madge,"  he  said,  at  length,  "you  are  as  swarthy  as 
any  gypsy,  with  dark  skin,  black  eyes,  and  black  hair. 
Ben  Hurst  were,  if  anything,  darker  and  blacker  nor 
you.  Black  crows  don't  have  white  doves,  you  know! 
Now  T  want  to  know  where  this  child's  lily-white  skin 
and  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair  comes  from?" 

The  total  want  of  resemblance  between  the  child  and 
Madge,  or  her  dead  husband,  had  often  been  noticed 
by  her  neighbors,  and  not  to  her  own  credit. 

"Drat  the  brat!"  exclaimed  Madge,  with  shame  and 
rage.  "You'll  make  me  hate  it!  How  can  I  help  its 
looks.  It  looks  as  Nature  made  it  look,  I  reckon.  And 
I  won't  have  you  flinging  out  your  slurs  on  me  for 
it!  The  Lord  knows  I'm  as  poor  as  poverty  can  make 
me;  I've  been  brought  down  to  beg  my  bread  in  the 
streets;  but  for  all  that  I've  been  an  honest  woman; 
and  if  anybody  says  I  haven't — I'll  kill  'em!" 

She  had  thrown  the  frightened  and  screaming  child 
upon  the  bed,  and  turned  round  upon  the  man.  Her 
black  eyes  were  burning  and  blazing,  her  nostrils  were 


100  THE  LOST  HEIK 

expanded,  her  teeth  clinched,  and  her  lips  drawn  back 
and  down  like  a  wildcat  in  the  act  of  springing. 

The  great  red-headed  brute  of  a  fireman  shrank 
away,  appalled  at  the  fury  he  had  raised. 

"There,  there,  there,  there,  lass!  I  know  as  you're 
an  honest  'oman ;  everybody  knows  it.  Don't  holler  till 
you're  hurt,  old  gal,  and  don't  mistreat  the  poor 
baby,"  he  said,  soothingly. 

With  a  change  as  sudden  as  the  fall  of  rain  upon  the 
flash  of  lightning  and  the  clap  of  thunder,  the  woman 
burst  into  tears,  and  took  up  the  child  and  began  to 
soothe  it  tenderly. 

"You  ought  to  be  beaten,  you  brute,  for  driving  me 
mad  with  your  slurs,  and  setting  me  against  the  poor 
child !" 

"I  know  I  ought,  and  you  may  beat  me,  Madge,  as 
soon  as  is  convenient.  But  now,  I  must  go  back  to  the 
boat.  And  you'll  be  on  board  on  time  to-morrow?" 

"I'll  be  on  board  by  seven  o'clock,"  said  the  woman. 

And  Tony  Brice  went  away,  leaving  Madge  Hurst  to 
soothe  the  child  that  was  sobbing  forth  its  fright  and 
trouble  on  her  stormy  bosom. 


CHAPTEK  XIII. 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  MISERY. 

Madge  Hurst  had  just  replaced  the  sleeping  child  on 
the  wretched  bed,  when  the  door  opened  again,  and 
a  woman  entered — a  tall,  dark  woman,  clothed  in  rags 
and  bowed  with  age  or  infirmities,  and  leaning  on  a 
stick.  She  crossed  the  room,  and  sank  down  exhausted 
on  the  old  hair  trunk,  and  let  her  tattered  shawl  fall 
from  her  head  and  shoulders,  revealing  a  tangled  mass 
of  iron-gray  hair,  that  hung  in  elf-locks  down  her  neck 
on  each  side  of  her  swarthy  and  wrinkled  visage. 

"Why,  mother,  where's  you  cap  and  kerchief?"  in 
quired  the  young  woman,  staring  in  painful  surprise 
at  the  bared  gray  head. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  101 

"Parted  with  'em,  parted  with  'em  for  a  sup  of 
rum,  'out  which  I  should  never  a  tottered  home.  Ehr 
Madge,  lass,"  she  said,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro, 
"no  luck  to-day!  There  I've  set  the  livelong  day  on 
the  curbstone  by  the  Church  of  St.  Mary  le  Strand, 
watching  the  people  go  in  and  out  the  church.  And  no 
one  of  them  dropped  a  penny  into  the  palm  of  an  old 
wife  like  me!  And  they  think  if  they  only  go  to 
church,  they  will  go  to  heaven,  the 

And  here  the  poor  wretch,  embittered  by  a  long  life 
of  want  and  woe,  exasperated  by  this  last  day  of  keen 
hunger  and  disappointment,  broke  forth  into  a  torrent 
of  profane  and  indecent  invective,  utterly  unfit  to  be 
heard  or  read. 

"Hush,  hush,  mother,  for  goodness'  sake!"  cried 
Madge,  who,  passionate  and  reckless  as  she  was,  felt 
shocked  to  hear  such  imprecations  from  lips  that 
womanhood  should  have  made  decent,  and  age  ven 
erable.  "Do  hush,  mother;  and  look  here  what  I  have 
got,"  she  added,  displaying  her  handful  of  coins. 

"Eh,  lass,  what  a  lot!"  cried  the  crone,  opening  wide 
her  greedy  eyes,  and  staring  half  in  delight,  half  in 
doubt,  as  though  she  saw  the  money,  yet  distrusted 
her  own  sight,  and  while  calculating  its  value,  feared 
that  it  might  vanish  like  a  vision  of  the  night,  or  turn 
to  dry  leaves  like  fairy  gold. 

Madge  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  briefly 
told  her  mother  of  the  young,  beautiful  and  happy 
bride  at  St.  George's  Church,  who,  out  of  the  wealth 
of  her  own  prosperity  of  joy,  gave  so  freely  to  the 
poor  beggar  with  the  baby  at  the  gate. 

"Welladay!  I  have  heard  of  sich  things  in  my  life, 
but  never  did  I  believe  in  them  till  now,"  said  the  old 
woman,  crossing  her  hands  and  lifting  up  her  eyes. 
"And  now,  Madge,  I  think  ye  might  be  a  leetle  liberal, 
and  buy  some  tea  and  white  sugar,  and  a  sup  o'  milk, 
and  a  loaf  of  white  bread,  and  a  rasher  o'  bacon  and 
some  eggs,  Madge.  And  don't  forget  to  take  our  frying- 
pan  out  of  pawn.  And,  Madge,  lass,  remember  to 
fetch  some  coals  and  a  bundle  of  kindlings.  And, 
Madge,  hinny,  whatever  yer  do,  bring  a  bottle  o'  rum." 


102  THE  LOST  HEIK 

"Yes,  I'll  bring  everything  that  is  needful,"  said  the 
young  woman,  as  she  left  the  room. 

"Dearie  me,  it  will  be  a  feast,"  said  the  dame  to  her 
self,  as  she  went  to  the  cupboard  and  took  from  it  a 
few  cracked  cups  and  saucers  and  plates,  and  arranged 
them  on  the  table. 

Meanwhile  Madge  went  out  upon  her  errand.  Thick 
as  a  beehive  with  cells  was  this  old  tenement-house 
with  human  life.  Madge  Hurst's  room  opened  upon  a 
wide  hall  lighted  by  a  sklight,  and  having  four  doors, 
two  on  the  right  and  two  on  the  left,  opening  from 
it  into  corresponding  rooms. 

And  each  of  these  rooms  was  tenanted  by  a  separate 
family. 

The  one  on  the  same  side  and  in  front  of  Madge's 
apartment  was  occupied  by  a  seamstress  and  her  bed 
ridden  sister. 

The  front  room  opposite  to  that  contained  an  old 
couple  and  two  young  granddaughters,  ballet  girls  at 
the  Thespian  Temple. 

The  room  back  of  theirs  and  opposite  to  Madge's 
accommodated  a  stage  carpenter  and  his  wife  and 
children. 

The  head  of  the  staircase  was  at  the  back  of  the  hall, 
and  thus  it  was  just  between  Madge's  room  and  the 
stage  carpenter's  room. 

Madge  crossed  the  hall,  and  rapped  at  the  door  of 
the  latter. 

It  was  opened  by  a  pale  and  poorly-clad  woman,  who 
had  one  babe  in  her  arms  and  two  clinging  to  her 
skirts. 

"Good-e'en  to  you,  Mrs.  Juniper.  Would  you  kindly 
lend  me  the  loan  of  your  big  basket  for  half  an  hour, 
and  drop  in  after  that  time  to  a  cup  of  tea  with  me 
and  mother?"  inquired  Madge  of  the  pale  woman. 

"Thank  ye  kindly,  Mrs.  Hurst,  and  I'll  do  so;  and 
yer  heartily  welcome  to  the  basket.  Fetch  it,  Billy," 
said  the  stage  carpenter's  wife,  looking  in  upon  her 
room  and  calling  one  of  her  children. 

The  lower  rooms  of  this  old  rookery  were  occupied 


THE  LOST  HEIR  103 

on  the  right  by  an  old  clothes  dealer,  and  on  the  left 
by  a  pawnbroker. 

Madge  went  down  to  the  ground  floor  and  in  through 
a  side  door  to  the  pawnbroker's,  where  she  proceeded  to 
redeem  a  pot,  a  tea-kettle  and  a  frying-pan,  all  of  which 
she  put  into  her  big  basket,  while  the  well-satined 
Israelite  behind  the  counter  looked  as  if  he  secretly 
wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  these  articles 
would  be  left  in  pledge  again. 

Madge  then  crossed  the  lower  hall  and  entered  by 
an  opposite  side  door  into  the  old  clothes  dealer's  shop. 
Here  she  seemed  to  be  well  acquainted,  for  she  ac 
costed  the  woman  behind  the  counter  with : 

"Well,  Mrs.  Kempton,  and  how  is  trade?" 

"It  is  just  so  poor,  Missus  Hurst,  that  I'm  thinking 
I'll  have  to  send  my  Mary  out  to  service,"  said  the 
old-clothes  woman. 

"Ain't  Mr.  Kempton  at  work?" 

"Yes,  just  now;  but  lor',  what's  sixteen  shilling  a 
week  and  find  yerself,  when  there's  eleven  childun, 
which,  with  me"  and  the  father,  make  thirteen  in 
family? 

"But  the  shop?" 

"Yes,  the  shop.  Much  good  that  do  me!  I  took  in 
just  eighteen  pence  yesterday  and  sixpence  to-day." 

"Well,  but  the  day  is  not  finished  yet.  I  have  come 
to  deal  with  you,  for  one.  I  want  a  decent  linsey 
woolsey  gown,  and  a  plain  plaid  shawl  and  a  cheap 
straw  bonnet  for  myself,  and  a  nankeen  or  pique  cloak 
and  a  little  straw  cap  for  the  babe,"  said  Madge, 
confidently. 

"Don't  say  so!  What's  up  now,  Magdalene  Hurst? 
Has  that  rich  uncle  come  home  from  Indy,  or  Aus- 
traly,  or  Californy,  or  any  o'  them  countries  which 
grows  rich  uncles?"  laughed  the  old-clothes  woman. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  I  have  been  sent  for  to 
Scotland,  where  I  was  ill,  you  know.  And  a  friend 
has  advanced  me  the  money  to  pay  my  expenses.  And 
I  must  have  decent  clothes  to  travel  in,  you  know," 
answered  Madge,  who  had  grown  tired  of  repeating  the 


104  THE  LOST  HEIR 

story  of  the  beautiful  bride  who  had  been  her  bene 
factress. 

"Then  here's  a  black  serge.  Come,  now,  a  nice  dress 
for  a  widow  woman  like  you;  fit  you  like  a  glove,  I 
know;  and  dirt  cheap  at  six  and  ninepence." 

"That  will  do.  If  it  shouldn't  fit  me,  I'll  make  it  do 
so.  Now  for  the  shawl  and  bonnet,"  said  Madge,  as 
Mrs.  Kempton  took  down  the  dress  and  laid  it  on  the 
counter. 

"Here's  a  good  black  woolen  shawl  as  will  match  the 
dress  beautiful;  indeed,  it  were  bought  with  the 
dress,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton,  taking  down  a  folded  parcel 
from  a  shelf.  "Cheap  at  four  and  sixpence." 

"Well,  now  the  bonnet." 

"Here  it  is;  a  good  black  leghorn,  not  much  worn, 
dirt  cheap  at  one  and  threepence." 

"Hem — let's  see,"  said  Madge,  counting  rapidly 
upon  her  fingers — "four  and  nine  for  the  dress,  and  one 
and  trippings  for  the  bonnet,  makes  eight  shillings, 
and  four  and  six  for  the  shawl,  makes  twelve  shilling 
sixpence,  and  seven  and  six  for  the  cloak  and  hood 
makes — yes,  exactly  one  pound.  Now,  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do  with  you,  Mrs.  Kempton;  I'll  give  you  ten 
shilling  for  the  whole  lot." 

"Whew!  I  don't  think  as  how  you  will,  Mrs.  Hurst," 
said  the  old-clothes  woman. 

There  ensued  a  great  deal  of  bargaining,  which  was 
ended  at  last  by  the  parties  compromising  on  fifteen 
shillings  as  the  price  of  the  lot  of  goods. 

"Drop  in  and  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  mother  and  me, 
in  'bout  half  an  hour,"  said  Madge,  magnificently,  as 
she  put  her  purchases  in  the  big  basket  on  the  top  of 
her  redeemed  pans  and  kettles. 

As  the  basket  was  now  full,  it  was  necessary  to  take 
it  upstairs  and  empty  it  before  she  could  go  out  and 
purchase  the  materials  for  her  evening  feast. 

On  reaching  the  upper  floor  and  the  door  of  her  own 
room,  she  just  slipped  the  basket  inside,  saying: 

"Fill  the  kettle,  mother,  and  put  it  on,  and  I'll  be 
back  again  by  the  time  the  water  is  boiled. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  105 

Then  around  to  old  Mrs.  Flowers  sped  Madge,  to 
carry  her  invitation  to  her  "tea  party." 

The  next  door  Madge  rapped  at  was  that  of  the 
front  room  opposite  the  old  couple's  apartment,  and  on 
the  same  side  of  the  hall  with  her  own.  It  was  tenant 
ed  by  the  poor  young  seamstress  and  her  invalid  sister. 

To  the  sweetly  spoken  "come  in,"  Madge  entered  a 
room  different  in  many  respects  from  the  other  three 
on  that  floor. 

It  was  not  almost  bare,  like  her  own  room,  or  crowd 
ed  with  furniture,  like  the  other  two.  It  was  neatly, 
thought  scantily,  furnished.  And  every  part  of  the 
room,  and  every  article  in  it,  was  scrupulously  clean. 

On  a  clean,  plain  bed,  covered  with  a  patchwork 
quilt,  lay  a  deathly-pale  girl. 

At  the  fire,  with  a  bright  tin  saucepan  in  her  hand, 
stood  another  girl,  scarcely  less  delicate  looking  than 
the  invalid  on  the  bed.  This  girl  was  quite  pretty,  and 
might  have  been  called  beautiful  had  it  not  been  for 
the  pallor  of  her  complexion  and  the  thinness  of  her 
cheeks.  She  had  soft,  bright,  brown  hair,  parted  over 
a  full,  broad,  intellectual-looking  forehead,  and  wound 
in  a  rich  roll  at  the  back  of  her  head.  She  had  large, 
soft  gray  eyes,  fringed  with  thick,  black  lashes,  and 
arched  with  fine  black  brows.  She  had  a  small,  straight 
nose,  and  small,  full  lips,  expressive  of  much  sweet 
ness  of  temper. 

"Well,  Rachel,  and  how  is  Matty  this  evening?"  com 
menced  Madge. 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Hurst.    Will  you  sit  down?" 

"No,  thanky.  I  only  came  to  ask  you  to  drop  in  this 
evening.  Me  and  mother  are  having  of  a  little  tea 
party." 

Rachel  Wood  lifted  her  pretty  eyebrows  in  natural 
surprise,  on  hearing  that  the  two  women  who  had  been 
starving  for  the  last  few  weeks  were  giving  a  tea  party 
this  evening. 

"Will  you  come?"  inquired  Madge. 

"No,  thank  you  kindly,  Mrs.  Hurst.  You  know  I 
never  leave  poor  Matty  except  when  I'm  compelled  to 
do  so,"  said  Rachel  W;ood,  as.  she  poured  the  oatmeal 


106  THE  LOST  HEIE 

gruel  she  had  been  making  from  the  saucepan  into  a 
little  white  bowl. 

"But  it  is  only  for  to-night,  and  only  into  the  next 
room,  and  you  can  slip  in  here  every  ten  minutes,  if 
you  like,  to  see  how  Matty  is  getting  on.  And  besides, 
I'm  going  to  Scotland  to-morrow  morning,  and  it  is  a 
sort  o'  leave-taking,  you  know,"  urged  Madge. 

"Ay?  Have  you  got  your  place  on  the  boat  back 
again?"  inquired  Rachel. 

"Maybe  so,"  answered  Madge,  evasively,  for  she  did 
not  wish  to  enter  into  explanations. 

"Fm  right  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Rachel,  as  she  set 
the  bowl  of  gruel  on  a  small,  red  tray,  and  gave  it  to 
her  sister. 

"Thanky.    But  will  you  come  to  tea?" 

"No;  I  would  rather  not  leave,  Matty,"  said  Rachel. 

"Oh,  do  go,  Ray,"  spoke  the  invalid  from  the  bed;  "do 
go,  Ray,  and  have  a  good  time.  Never  mind  me.  I 
shall  do  very  well.  After  I  have  eaten  my  gruel,  I  shall 
turn  over  and  go  to  sleep.  And  when  you  come  back 
again,  you  can  tell  me  all  about  it,  you  know.  It  will 
amuse  me." 

Still  Rachel  hesitated;  but  she  yielded  at  length,  so 
far  as  to  say  that  she  would  "drop  in"  to  Mrs.  Hurst's 
room  for  a  few  minutes  after  her  poor  sister  had  fallen 
asleep. 

With  this  understanding  Madge  took  leave  of  the 
sick  girl,  and  left  the  room. 

And  in  a  very  few  moments  afterward  Matty  Wood 
complained  of  drowsiness,  and  turned  her  face  to  the 
wall  and  fell  asleep,  jor  feigned  to  do  so. 

After  watching  her  sister  suspiciously  for  a  little 
while,  Rachel  arose  and  brushed  her  soft  brown  hair, 
took  off  her  white  apron,  smoothed  down  the  folds  of 
her  neat  brown  calico  dress,  put  on  a  clean  collar,  and 
then,  after  taking  another  look  at  her  sleeping  sister, 
went  in  to  the  "tea  party." 

There  have  been  many  costly  and  fashionable  enter 
tainments,  at  which  there  was  much  less  of  enjoyment 
than  at  this  very  humble  little  feast  in  the  poor  tene 
ment-house. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  107 

Rachel  Wood  found  all  the  invited  guests  assembled. 

Old  Mrs.  Flowers  and  old  Mrs.  Hurst  sat  together 
on  the  side  of  the  bed,  each  with  a  cup  of  tea  well- 
flavored  with  rum  in  her  hand  Mrs.  Juniper  and  Mrs. 
Kempton  sat,  the  one  on  the  old  hair  trunk  and  the 
other  on  the  rickety  chair,  each  sipping  her  tea,  not 
flavored  with  anything  more  objectionable  than  doubt 
ful  milk  and  sugar. 

Madge  Hurst  stood  at  the  fire  with  a  frying-pan  in 
her  hand,  frying  rashers  of  bacon,  whose  aroma  filled 
the  air. 

Rachel  Wood,  who  seldom  showed  herself  among 
her  fellow-lodgers,  was  greeted  noisily. 

Each  woman,  young  or  old,  got  up  and  offered  her 
own  seat  to  the  newcomer. 

And  Rachel  smiled  on  all,  and  thanked  each,  but  took 
none  of  the  proffered  seats,  until  Madge  Hurst  called 
out: 

"There's  room  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  Rachel.  Sit 
down  there  by  mother  till  I  bring  you  a  cup  o'  tea." 

Rachel  did  as  she  was  directed,  and  Madge  soon  sup 
plied  her  with  tea,  toast  and  bacon. 

The  party  kept  up  merrily  until  quite  a  late  hour, 
when  it  broke  up,  and  each  woman  went  to  her  own 
room — Rachel  Wood  to  make  her  wakeful  sister  laugh 
at  the  comic  descriptions  she  gave  of  the  tea  party; 
old  Mrs.  Flowers  to  have  a  basin  of  porridge  ready  for 
her  girls  when  they  should  come  in,  and  Mrs.  Juniper 
to  wait  up  for  her  husband  to  give  him  his  supper. 

Very  early  next  morning  Madge  was  astir.  And 
while  old  Ruth  Drug  was  sleeping  off  the  effects  of  her 
last  night's  feast,  Madge  prepared  breakfast  and  ate 
it,  and  dressed  her  child  and  herself  for  the  journey. 

And  still  the  old  woman  slept  on,  and  still  Madge 
forbore  to  wake  her. 

But  it  was  now  seven  o'clock,  and  she  had  to  go,  in 
order  to  catch  the  steamer  before  it  should  leave  the 
wharf.  So  she  took  a  look  at  her  mother,  kissed  her 
where  she  lay,  and  then,  with  her  child  in  her  arms, 
left  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

She  walked  rapidly  through   a  labyrinth  of  lanes, 


108  THE  LOST  HEIR 

alleys  and  by  streets  that  lay  between  her  dwelling  and 
the  riverside,  and  then  kept  along  the  docks  until  she 
came  to  the  place  where  the  Shaft  was  swiftly  getting 
up  her  steam. 

"There,  I  hadn't  a  minute  more  to  lose,"  said  the 
young  woman,  as  she  went  to  the  side  of  the  steamer 
and  crossed  the  gangplank  leading  to  its  deck. 

Madge  was  fortunate.  While  she  was  standing  on 
the  deck  waiting  for  some  one  whom  she  had  known 
on  the  boat  to  pass  by  her  way,  the  captain  himself 
came  along  and  saw  her,  and  hailed  her  good- 
humoredly. 

"Eh,  Madge,  woman,  is  that  you?  You're  unco  hard 
to  kill !  Aweel !  and  hae  ye  come  back  to  get  your  old 
place  on  the  boat?" 

"If  you  please,  captain,  I  am  going  up  to  that  town 
where' I  was  so  long  ill,  but  I  would  like  very  much  to 
have  my  old  place  as  stewardess  again.  I  could  leave 
the  child  with  my  mother." 

"Ay,  woman,  and  I  mysel'  should  like  vera  weel  to 
hae  such  a  skillfu'  hand  about  the  cabin;  but  this  will 
be  my  last  trip.  The  old  Shaft  is  going  to  be  laid  up 
for  repairs,  and  myseP  for  the  same  purpose,  I'm  think 
ing." 

"You  don't  look  like  laying  up,  sir,  if  you'll  pardon 
me  the  liberty  of  saying  so.  You  look  well,  sir," 

"Ay,  lass/ for  threescore  and  ten.  Aweel,  then. 
There,  gang  your  ways  intil  your  old  quarters,  and  ye 
shall  no  be  at  any  costs  for  your  trip,"  said  the  captain, 
heartily,  as  he  passed  her  on  his  errand. 

"Thanky,  most  kindly,  sir;  and  may  the  Lord 

"There  f  that  will  do.  Go  make  yourselves  comfort 
able,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  hurried  off. 

So  privileged,  Madge  found  her  way  to  the  little  room 
she  had  used  while  stewardess  of  the  boat.  And  there 
she  sat  down  on  the  side  of  her  berth,  to  nurse  her  child 
and  put  him  to  sleep. 


THE  LOST  HEIE  109 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

STILL    UNREVEALED. 

The  two  days'  voyage  passed  without  other  incident 
to  Madge  Hurst  than  the  spasmodic  courtship  of  her 
friend  Tony  Brice. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day  the  steamer  dropped 
anchor  in  the  little  bay  of  Killford. 

Madge,  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  left  the  boat.  As 
soon  as  she  went  on  shore  she  turned  her  steps  to  the 
suburbs  of  the  town,  where  the  hut  of  the  old  dame, 
Jean  Gaunt,  was  standing. 

The  way  was  long,  and  the  night  grew  dark  before 
she  came  in  sight  of  the  hut,  to  which  she  was  then 
only  guided  by  the  glow  of  the  firelight  seen  through 
its  little  windows. 

She  knocked,  but,  receiving  no  answer,  opened  the 
door  and  entered  the  hut. 

All  was  dark  within,  except  for  the  dim  red  glow  of 
the  smoldering  peat  fire,  that  scarcely  served  to  show 
the  outlines  of  the  wretched  bed  in  the  distant  corner. 

Madge  went  to  the  fireplace,  and,  feeling  around, 
found  the  stump  of  an  old  iron  poker,  with  which  she 
stirred  the  smoldering  peat  into  a  blaze  that  lit  up  the 
small  room.  Then,  from  a  pile  of  the  same  fuel  that 
lay  close  by  the  chimney  corner,  she  threw  on  a  fresh 
supply  to  feed  the  fire. 

At  the  same  moment  the  child,  whom  she  held  in  one 
arm  all  this  while,  began  to  crow  and  laugh  with  de 
light  at  the  sudden  blaze. 

The  light  and  the  laughter  together  aroused  the  old 
woman,  who  seemed  to  have  been  sleeping  soundly  on 
the  corner  bed.  Raising  herself  upon  her  elbow,  and 
staring  wildly  at  the  woman  and  child,  she  inquired,  in 
a  very  weak  and  cracked  voice : 

"Wha'syou?" 

"It  is  I,  Magdalene  Hurst,  Mrs.  Gaunt  You  said 
you  wanted  to  see  me,  and  I  have  come  all  the  way 


110  THE  LOST  HEIR 

from  London  to  see  you,"  said  Madge,  going  to  the  side 
of  the  bed. 

"Ay,  ay,  lass,  I  behooved  to  see  ye  before  I  deed." 

"I  hope  you  are  not  sick,  Mrs.  Gaunt,"  said  Madge, 
seating  herself  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Fm  na  sick,  or  onywise  ailing  of  ony  thing  waur 
than  auld  age,  whilk  ye  ken  is  often  a  fatal  disorder, 
Madge  woman." 

"You  said,  Mrs.  Gaunt,  that  you  had  something  to 
tell  me.  Do  you  wish  to  tell  me  now,  or  shall  I  come 
some  other  time?"  inquired  Madge. 

"Some  ither  time?  How  lang  do  ye  think  I  hae  got 
to  live,  lass?  Na,  na,  ye  maun  hear  the  truth  noo.  And 
now,  Madge,  woman,  barken  till  me.  That  bonny  bairn 
in  your  arms  is  nane  o'  your'n." 

"Bosh,  dame!  Did  you  bring  me  all  the  way  from 
London  to  tell  me  such  rubbish  as  this?"  demanded 
Madge  Hurst,  half  angrily. 

"It's  nae  rubbish.  I  did  na  help  that  bairn  intil  the 
warld,"  insisted  Jean  Gaunt. 

"Fiddle-de-dee !  Then  I  reckon  you  never  nursed  me 
in  my  confinement?" 

"Ou,  ay,  I  did;  and  I  delivered  you  of  a  puir  wee 
bairn,  that  deed  the  day  it  was  born,  the  while  ye  were 
in  a  dead  sleep,  sae  ye  did  na  ken  onything  about  the 
change  o'  the  bairns." 

"The  change  of  the  babies!"  exclaimed  Madge,  now 
fairly  aroused. 

"Ay,  just.    I'm  no  wandering,  as  ye  think,  lass." 

Surprise,  pain,  perplexity,  all  possessed  the  mind  of 
Madge  at  once.  "What  do  you  mean?  This  is  not  my 
child?  This  not  mine?"  she  cried,  gazing  down  into 
the  face  of  the  delicate  babe,  and  being  struck  all  at 
once  by  its  utter  dissimilarity  to  herself,  her  late  hus 
band  and  all  their  dark  race.  "Not  mine!  In  the 
name  of  goodness,  then,  whose  is  it?"  she  gasped,  with 
a  pang  at  her  heart. 

"I  dinna  ken  just  that  preceesely.  It  will  be  a  leddy, 
noo,  in  Stirling  or  in  Callendor,  I  dinna  mind  whilk. 
But  she's  dead,  too." 

"Who  is  dead?"  sharply  demanded  Madge. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  111 

"The  mither  of  that  bairn,  whilk  will  be  a  luve  child, 
I  tak  it." 

"Who  is  she?  what  is  her  name?  Who  is  the  mother 
of  this  child  that  has  been  thrown  upon  me?"  cried 
Madge,  with  increasing  excitement. 

"Ou,  dinna  mak  sic  a  noise !  I  dinna  ken,  I  telled  ye ! 
On,  I'm  vera  bad  in  my  chest !  Raise  me  up !"  gasped 
the  dying  woman,  breathing  very  hard. 

"Tell  me,  then,"  said  Madge,  as  she  lifted  her— -"tell 
me  how  you  dared  to  deceive  me  so." 

"Ay,  ay — to  keep  ye  fra  breaking  yer  heart  for  yer 
deed  bairn.  Your  bairn  was  deed,  and  it  wanted  a 

mither.  And  sae — and — sae Ou !  lay  me  doon.  I 

canna  fetch  my  breath,"  gasped  the  dying  sinner, 
changing  so  suddenly  that  Madge  dropped  her  form  in 
a  fright  and  a  hurry,  and  ran  to  get  the  cordial,  which 
she  poured  into  a  spoon  and  put  to  the  patient's  lips. 

But  the  rattle  in  her  throat  prevented  her  from  swal 
lowing,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed. 

Overcome  by  the  awful  presence  of  death,  Madge 
dropped  on  her  knees,  and,  with  the  long  forgotten  in 
stinct  of  reverence,  repeated  aloud  the  only  prayer  she 
knew. 

Madge  stayed  in  the  village  for  a  few  days,  in  order 
to  ascertain  whether  the  mystery  surrounding  the  un 
known  child  might  be  cleared  up. 

But  all  that  she  learned  was,  firstly,  that  the  babe 
was  not  hers ;  second,  that  it  was  the  child  of  a  lady  of 
Stirling  or  of  Callendor,  who  had  died  in  giving  it 
birth ;  and  all  that  she  had  in  the  way  of  a  clew  was  a 
little  white  flannel  sack  that  she  had  found  in  the  dead 
woman's  trunk — a  sack  lined  with  white  silk  and  em 
broidered  with  white  floss,  and  a  tiny  white  sock  of 
Shetland  wool,  with  a  white  silk  cord  and  tassel. 

With  this  much  in  the  way  of  information  and  clew, 
she  left  old  Jean  Gaunt  to  be  buried  by  the  parish,  and 
she  went  on  board  the  Shaft  to  return  to  London. 

While  they  were  steaming  out  to  sea,  Madge  sat  on 
the  deck,  with  the  child  on  her  lap. 

She  was  very  miserable.  She  was  naturally  grieved 
and  angry  at  the  cruel  deception  and  heavy  burden  that 


112  THE  LOST  HEIK 

had  been  put  upon  her.  She  had  loved  and  nursed  thi? 
poor  child  for  more  than  six  months;  now  she  some 
times  felt  as  if  she  hated  it.  She  was  at  cross-purposes 
with  herself;  often,  in  a  paroxysm  of  indignation,  she 
felt  impelled  to  pitch  the  poor  child  overboard,  even  if 
she  had  followed  him  the  next  moment;  and  often 
again,  in  a  great  passion  of  pity,  she  would  clasp  the 
forlorn  child  to  her  bosom  and  cover  him  with  caresses. 

Poor  storm-beaten  soul !  She  had  neither  a  particle 
of  self-knowledge  nor  of  self-control. 

While  she  sat  on  the  deck,  with  all  this  commotion 
within  her  seeming  quiet  bosom,  Tony  Brice  found  a 
brief  opportunity  to  come  and  speak  to  her. 

"Well,  lass!"  he  said,  looking  at  her  wistfully,  "what 
was  the  secret  the  dame  had  to  tell  you?  Is  it  any 
thing  you  can  tell  again  ?  My  eyes !  now  I  can  see  you 
good,  I'm  blowed  if  you  don't  look  as  black  and  glum  as 
if  you  had  had  a  murder  confessed  to  you.  Was  it  a 
murder,  lass?" 

"It  might  just  as  well  have  been  a  murder,"  said 
Madge,  savagely. 

And  then  she»told  him  of  the  strange  communication 
made  to  her  by  old  Jean  Gaunt. 

"Never  mind,  old  gall,  you  take  care  of  the  little  lad, 
and  I'll  help  you  to  do  it,"  said  Tony  Brice,  as  he  left 
the  side  of  the  woman  and  went  about  his  business. 

In  due  time  the  steamer  reached  London. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  she  ran  in  alongside 
of  her  wharf. 

Tony  Brice,  in  hurrying  past  Madge,  expressed  a  re 
gret  that  his  duties  would  not  allow  him  to  see  her 
safe  home  and  carry  the  baby  for  her ;  but  he  promised 
to  come  to  her  as  soon  as  he  should  be  able  to  get  off. 

Madge  only  laughed  at  him,  and  shouldered  the  baby 
on  one  side  and  the  bundle  on  the  other,  and  set  off  for 
Junk  lane. 

,  Madge  found  the  old  rookery  very  much  as  she  had 
left  it — the  doorsteps  occupied  by  the  same  group  of 
ragged  and  dirty  children,  the  passage  and  stairs  filthy 
thoroughfares  for  men,  women,  boys  and  girls,  them 
selves  almost  as  filthy. 


THE  LOST  HEIR 

Old  Ruth  Drug  sat  in  her  room,  smoking  and  grum 
bling  over  a  handful  of  coals  in  the  grate,  where  she 
was  boiling  a  saucepan  full  of  water. 

''Well,  my  gall,  and  so  you're  home  at  last!  And 
now  tell  me  what  that  ere  secret  as  the  old  Scotch 
'oman  had  to  tell  you,"  she  growled. 

"Let  me  take  off  my  bonnet  and  rest  first,  mother," 
said  Madge,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

After  a  few  moments  she  told  her  mother  the  oft- 
repeated  story  first  told  her  by  old  Jean  Gaunt. 

Ruth  Drug  listened  in  silence,  and  puffed  away  at 
her  pipe  until  the  story  was  all  told  and  the  pipe  was 
smoked  out.  Then,  singularly  enough,  she  gave  the 
same  advice  that  had  been  given  by  Tony  Brice. 

"Take  care  on  him,  Madge.  That  babby  would  a  been 
worth  stealing  if  he  hadn't  been  put  upon  you.  Yesr 
he'd  a  been  worth  stealing;  he's  sich  a  first-rate  babby 
to  beg  with.  So  he's  wallable  on  that  account,  Madge, 
let  alone  some  o'  these  days  his  fine  friends  coming  to 
claim  him,  and  to  pay  you  handsome  for  taking  care 
on  him." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DUKE    OP    CHEVIOT. 

The  "happy  pair,"  a  really  very  "happy  pair,"  were 
enjoying  themselves  so  much  that,  at  the  end  of  the 
fourth  week  of  their  stay  at  Penzance,  neither  Eglan 
tine  nor  her  husband  felt  any  desire  to  leave,  and  so 
they  determined  to  duplicate  their  honeymoon  by  stay 
ing  four  weeks  longer. 

They  had  just  returned  from  a  trip  to  Land's  End, 
and  Eglantine  had  run  upstairs  to  lay  off  her  hat  and 
wrappings,  and  William  Douglas  was  about  to  follow 
her,  when  their  landlady,  who  had  opened  the  door  to 
admit  them,  made  him  a  sign  to  remain  behind. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Mrs.  Ashe?"  inquired  Mr.  Douglas. 

The  landlady  waited  till  she  heard  Eglantine  enter 


114  THE  LOST  HEIR 

the  room  above  and  close  the  door,  and  then  she  came 
near  and  whispered : 

"A  telegram,  sir.  I  thought,  as  it  might,  perhaps, 
bring  bad  news,  you  would  prefer  to  open  it  alone,  not 
to  alarm  the  lady." 

"Certainly;  thanks  for  your  precaution,  Mrs.  Ashe," 
replied  Mr.  Douglas,  as  he  took  the  telegram,  and,  with 
some  trepidation,  opened  and  read: 

TROSACK  CASTLE,  September  9. 
The  Duke  of  Cheviot  died  suddenly  this  morning. 

SHETLAND. 

It  was  very  unpleasant  to  have  their  happy  honey 
moon  broken  up  by  a  death  and  a  funeral,  even  though 
it  had  been  the  death  and  funeral  of  a  mere  acquaint 
ance.  And  they  both  loved  the  aged  Duke  of  Cheviot, 
whom,  they  said,  often  reminded  them  of  some  grand 
old  Douglas  of  history. 

So  William  Douglas  broke  the  news  to  his  wife  as 
gently  as  if  he  had  been  telling  her  of  the  death  of  a 
parent.  And  Eglantine  sat  down  and  wept. 

"We  have  been  so  happy,  so  perfectly  happy,  for  the 
last  six  weeks,  and  now  comes  this  to  make  us  sorrow 
ful,'7  she  said. 

"No  one  can  be  happy  for  any  length  of  time  in  this 
world,  you  know,  darling.  And  there  are  a  great  many 
things  a  great  deal  worse  than  the  death  of  |he  aged," 
said  William  Douglas. 

"And  now,  of  course,  we  must  go  back  directly." 

"Yes,  of  course,  dear." 

Eglantine  rang  for  old  Elspeth,  whom  she  still  re 
tained  as  her  attendant,  in  preference  to  any  younger 
and  more  pretentious  lady's  maid. 

And  they  were  all  soon  in  all  the  bustle  of  prepara 
tion. 

They  left  Penzance  that  same  evening. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  day's  journey  they  reached 
Trosach  Castle. 

"I  hope  the  family  are  all  well  in  this  trying  time, 
Burnside,"  said  Mr.  Douglas  to  the  solemn  hall  porter 
who  admitted  them. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  115 

"Yes,  your  grace,"  answered  the  man,  with  a  bow. 

William  Douglas  started  slightly  and  looked  at  the 
speaker,  and  then  recollected  himself. 

To  be  sure.  Six  weeks  since  he  had  left  Trosach 
Castle  as  plain  Mr.  William  Douglas.  Now,  by  the 
death  of  his  greatuncle,  he  returned  to  Trosach  Castle 
as  the  Duke  of  Cheviot,  Earl  of  Wellrose,  viscount  this, 
that  and  the  other,  and  baron  something  else.  There 
were  at  least  half  a  dozen  other  titles  attached  to  the 
dukedom  of  Cheviot. 

"Will  your  grace  take  some  refreshment?"  inquired 
the  butler,  who  came  out  of  the  dining-room. 

"When  will  dinner  be  ready?"  inquired  the  new  duke. 

"At  eight,  your  grace,"  said  the  butler. 

"Then  we  will  take  nothing  till  dinner;  eh,  Eglan 
tine?" 

"Nothing,"  assented  the  new  duchess. 

The  groom  of  the  chambers  now  advanced,  and  in 
quired  if  he  might  have  the  honor  of  showing  their 
graces  to  their  rooms. 

The  duke,  as  we  must  henceforth  call  him,  drew 
Eglantine's  arm  within  his  own,  and  followed  their 
conductor  upstairs. 

They  were  shown  into  the  very  same  suite  of  apart 
ments  once  occupied  by  Eglantine,  and  in  which  she 
had  suffered  such  anguish  of  mind.  The  place  had  been 
"swept  and  garnished"  for  their  reception  now,  and  an 
adjoining  chamber  fitted  up  as  a  dressing-room  for  the 
young  duke,  into  which  he  passed. 

Old  Elspeth  soon  entered,  with  her  lady's  dressing- 
bag  in  her  hands. 

And  Eglantine,  after  washing  the  dust  from  her 
face  and  hands,  and  submitting  her  hair  to  old  Elspeth's 
hands  to  be  combed  and  arranged,  found  a  suitable 
dress  in  her  wardrobe  that  had  been  left  behind  here, 
and  proceeded  to  make  her  toilet  for  dinner. 

She  had  not  quite  finished  it  when  there  came  a 
knock  at  the  door,  followed  by  the  entrance  of  Gillispie, 
Lady  Shetland's  maid. 

"Well,  my  good  Gillispie,  how  do  you  do?  and 

What  do  you  want?"  asked  Eglantine,  good-humoredly. 


116  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Please,  your  grace,  my  lady  directed  me  to  ask  if 
you  would  be  so  good  as  to  look  in  at  her  ladyship's 
boudoir  before  going  down,"  said  the  woman. 

"Tell  my  aunt  I  will  be  with  her  in  a  moment,"  said 
Eglantine,  rising  from  her  dressing  chair,  and  taking  a 
last  survey  of  herself  in  the  mirror  before  leaving  the 
room. 

She  passed  out  of  her  room  and  across  the  hall  to  the 
opposite  wing  of  the  house,  in  which  her  aunt's  apart 
ments  were  situated. 

Lady  Shetland  was  sitting  alone.  She  was  also  very 
plainly  dressed,  in  a  brown  moire  antique,  with  a  little 
lace  collar,  fastened  with  a  pearl  brooch  at  her  neck, 
and  a  little  pair  of  lace  cuffs  at  her  wrists.  She  arose 
and  kissed  Eglantine,  and  said: 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  my  love.  You  will  forgive 
my  not  coming  to  you,  but  in  truth  I  have  not  been 
well  for  some  days,  and  this  sad  event  was  very  sudden 
and  shocking." 

"Very,"  echoed  Eglantine,  with  a  shudder,  as  she  sat 
down  on  a  cushion  at  her  aunt's  feet. 

"He  went  to  bed  Monday  night  as  well  as  ever  I  saw 
him.  He  rang  the  bell  for  his  valet  at  eight  on  Tues 
day  morning.  It  was  some  two  hours  earlier  than  the 
duke's  usual  time  of  rising,  and  his  servant,  not  expect 
ing  such  a  summons,  was  in  bed,  as  it  seems.  He  arose 
and  dressed  himself  quickly,  however,  fearing  that 
something  might  be  wrong.  And  he  hastened  to  hia 
master's  room,  to  find  him — quite  dead." 

"How  dreadful"  muttered  Eglantine,  covering  her 
eyes. 

"Very  dreadful!  He  must  have  died  immediately 
after  ringing  his  bell,  for  the  man  Kichardson  declares 
that  the  bell  was  rung  at  eight,  and  that  he  himself  was 
at  the  duke's  bedside  ten  minutes  after.  He  gave  the 
alarm  immediately,  and  some  time  before  nine  o'clock 
the  marquis,  myself  and  Lady  Margaret,  with  Dr.  Me 
Gill  and  others,  were  assembled  around  his  bed.  He 
was  quite  dead.  McGill  said  that  he  must  have  been 
dead  full  three-quarters  of  an  hour." 


THE  LOST  HEIK  117 

"And  dear  Lady  Margaret?  How  does  she  bear  it?" 
inquired  Eglantine. 

"I  can  scarcely  tell  you?  There  were  no  demon 
strations  from  her.  She  stood  by  the  bedside  and 
gazed  upon  the  body  with  a  look  of  unutterable  grief,  or 
turned  her  eyes  in  an  agony  of  anxiety  from  one  face 
to  another,  as  if  searching  for  some  ground  of  hope 
from  their  expression.  But  when  she  heard  the  doc 
tor's  final  sentence,  'Dead,  quite  dead/  she  fainted,  and 
was  borne  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness  to  her  own 
room.  She  has  not  left  it  since." 

"Ah,  poor  child !  I  must  go  in  and  see  her.  She 
will  let  me  in,  don't  you  think?" 

"I  do  not  know.  She  receives  me,  of  course,  when  I 
go  to  see  her ;  but  I  think  she  only  does  so  in  courtesy. 
I  do  not  think  she  likes  my  visits.  Though  I  am 
bound  in  duty  to  make  them  sometimes,  I  restrict  my 
self  to  one  short  call  each  morning." 

"I  will  send  Elspeth  to  ask  if  I  may  go  and  see  her 
this  evening." 

"Yes,  I  wish  you  would.  Perhaps  you  may  be  able 
to  rouse  her  from  her  deep  depression,  though  it  is 
scarcely  probable  that  she  will  rally  her  spirits  until 
after  the  funeral." 

"When  is  the  funeral  to  be?" 

"On  Tuesday.  He  lays  in  the  long  drawing-room. 
He  looks  very  well,  like  some  noble  effigy.  Would  you 
like  to  see  him,  Eglantine?" 

"Yes,  aunt,  if  you  please,"  answered  the  young 
duchess;  then,  suddenly  recollecting  herself,  she  ex 
claimed  : 

"Oh,  no !  I  would  rather  not,  please !  The  last  time 
1  saw  him  he  was  alive,  and  he  looked  so  finely  then 
that  I  would  rather  not  have  his  living  image  replaced 
by  his  dead  one." 

And  then,  as  if  to  change  the  conversation  from  a 
subject  too  gloomy  for  her  spirits,  she  inquired : 

"Who  are  staying  in  the  house,  dear  aunt?" 

"No  one  but  the  home  circle  and  Lady  Margaret,  my 
love.  The  Chimbozas  went  two  weeks  ago.  The  duke 


118  THE  LOST  HEIE 

and  Lady  Margaret  stayed  on,  at  our  repeated  invita 
tion.  The  air  here  seemed  to  do  him  so  much  good." 

"Yes;  so  Margaret  wrote  me.  Strange  that  he 
should  have  died  after  all !" 

"Yes ;  it  is  often  so  with  the  aged,  however.  It  was 
a  stroke  of  apoplexy,  my  love." 

"Yes,  aunt,  I  supposed  so." 

"Well,  dear,  as  I  said,  the  duke  and  Margaret  stayed 
on  at  our  invitation.  And  Captain  Harry  lingered,  I 
fancy,  because  he  could  not  tear  himself  away  from 
Margaret." 

"Ah,  that  suit  prospers,  then?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Where  is  Captain  Harry  now?" 

"At  the  Seton  Arms.  He  lingered  there  Ifntil  the 
sudden  death  of  the  duke  and  the  self-seclusions  of 
Margaret,  and  then  he  went  away,  leaving  a  letter  of 
adieu  to  us  all.  He  is  staying  at  the  Seton  Arms  for 
the  funeral,  of  course.  There  is  the  dinner-bell,  my 
love.  Come." 

The  two  ladies  arose  and  left  the  room  together.  In 
the  hall  they  met  the  young  duke,  who  was  gravely 
welcomed  by  Lady  Shetland.  In  the  second  drawing- 
room  below  they  were  joined  by  the  marquis,  who  cor 
dially  greeted  his  niece  and  nephew,  and  offered  his 
arm  to  the  former,  leaving  Lady  Shetland  to  be  taken 
in  by  the  latter. 

A  rather  gloomy  dinner  this  was  to  those  who  re 
membered  what  lay  in  the  long  drawing-room  across 
the  hall. 

The  marquis  did  his  best  to  enliven  the  scene. 

"We  have,  after  all,  something  fairer  than  funerals 
to  tell  you  of,  my  dear  Eglantine,"  he  began.  "There 
are  two  prospective  weddings,  which,  however,  must  of 
course,  be  delayed  for  a  while,  under  the  present  cir 
cumstances.  But  'time  and  the  hour  wear  away  the 
weariest  day/ ' 

"Two  weddings,  did  you  say?"  inquired  Eglantine, 
at  once  interested. 

"Two  prospective  weddings,  my  love.  And  as  none 
of  the  parties  are  present,  I  think  we  may  speak  to  the 


THE  LOST  HEIE  119 

point.  Lady  Margaret  Douglas  and  Captain  Francis 
Harry  are  engaged.  Almost  the  last  act  of  the  duke's 
life  was  to  sanction  the  engagement." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  said  Eglantine. 

"And  you  will  be  even  better  pleased  to  hear  that  Or- 
noch  and  Miss  Chimboza  are  progressing  favorably 
in  the  same  direction.  And  if  they  are  not  now  posi 
tively  engaged,  they  must  be  very  nearly  so.  He  fol 
lowed  her  to  Torquay,  where  the  family  have  gone  for 
a  few  weeks,  having  found  the  Highlands  in  September 
too  bracing  for  their  Indian  constitutions.  Humph !  I 
suppose  it  is  all  settled  by  this  time." 

"Ah !  I  hope  it  is !"  fervently  exclaimed  Eglantine. 

"Hardly  so  soon,  I  should  judge,"  coldly  suggested 
Lady  Shetland. 

The  party  of  four  did  not  linger  long  over  the  dinner- 
table.  Lady  Sheland  and  Eglantine  withdrew,  leaving 
the  two  gentlemen  over  their  wine,  and  went  to  the  lit 
tle  drawing-room,  where  Eglantine  said: 

"Aunt,  if  you  will  please  excuse  me,  I  will  go  up 
stairs  now,  and  se  if  I  can  get  admission  to  poor  Mar 
garet." 

"Certainly,  my  dear;  go,  and  give  my  best  love  to 
the  poor  girl." 

So  permitted,  Eglantine  went  upstairs  to  her  own 
room,  where  Elspeth  was  engaged  in  unpacking  her 
boxes,  which  had  just  arrived. 

"Elspeth,  dear,  I  want  you  to  go  to  Lady  Margaret 
Douglas'  room,  and  give  her  my  love,  and  ask  her  if 
I  may  come  and  see  her." 

Elspeth  let  down  the  lid  of  the  trunk  she  was  un 
packing,  and  got  up  and  went  away  upon  her  errand. 

Eglantine,  feeling  very  tired,  threw  herself  into  a 
resting-cair  to  await  the  return  of  her  messenger. 

Presently  Elspeth  came  back,  and  said: 

"If  you  please,  me  leddy — I  mean,  yer  grace,  but  I 
canna  just  mind  a'  the  time — Leddy  Margaret  sends 
her  love,  and  will  be  unco  glad  to  see  you,  and 

Eglantine  waited  not  an  instant  to  hear  one  word 
more,  but  sprang  up  and  hurried  out  of  the  room  and 
down  the  whole  length  of  the  hall  to  the  door  of  Lady 


120  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Margaret's  boudoir.  She  rapped  softly,  and  was  told 
by  Margaret  to  come  in. 

She  entered,  and  found  her  friend  alone  and  lying 
one  a  lounge,  pale,  tearful,  wasted  with  grief. 

Eglantine  went  and  knelt  down  beside  her  and  kissed 
her,  almost  ready  to  weep  for  company. 

"Oh,  my  poor  darling,"  she  murmured,  softly;  "why 
do  you  grieve  so  bitterly?  Why,  your  poor,  sweet  face 
is  as  white  as  your  gown!  Don't  grieve  so,  love!" 

"Oh,  Eglantine!"  cried  the  bereaved  daughter,  with 
a  great  burst  of  tears  and  sobs.  "We  two  lived  alone 
together  so  many,  many  years.  We  two  were  all  the 
world  to  one  another  all  that  time.  Poor  Wellrose 
lived  at  his  club  mostly,  and  we  two  were  always  alone 
together.  And  now  he  is  gone,  and  I  am  left!  And 
though  Heaven  has  sent  new  friends  and  better  days,  I 
cannot  reconcile  myself  to  his  loss!  Oh,  Eglantine! 
after  we  had  suffered  so  many  hardships  and  priva 
tions  together,  I  did  so  much  want  him  to  live  many 
years,  to  enjoy  with  me  these  better  and  happier  days !" 

"My  darling  Margaret,  I  know  how  sad  it  is  for  you 
to  lose  the  sight  of  his  kind  old  face;  but  as  for  him, 
dear,  Margaret,  don't  your  faith  teach  you  that  even 
now  he  is  enjoying  better  and  happier  days  in  Heaven 
than  the  best  and  happiest  this  earth  could  give  him?" 

"I  know,  I  know ;  but  I  must  weep,  all  the  same !" 

Then  Eglantine,  finding  that  she  could  in  no  way 
comfort  her  friend,  fairly  broke  down  and  wept  for 
sympathy.  And  they  mingled  their  tears  together  un 
til  there  came  a  rap  at  the  door,  followed  by  the  en 
trance  of  a  housemaid,  bearing  a  tray  with  tea  and 
toast  for  Lady  Margaret,  and  bringing  a  message  from 
Lady  Shetland  to  the  young  duchess,  to  the  effect  that 
her  ladyship  waited  for  her  grace  in  the  drawing-room. 

Eglantine,  with  her  own  loving  hands,  helped  to  ar 
range  Margaret's  repast  upon  a  little  stand  beside  her 
lounge,  and  after  that  still  lingered  until  she  saw  her 
sipping  some  tea,  before  she  obeyed  the  summons  of 
Lady  Shetland  and  went  below. 

Soon  after  tea,  Eglantine,  feeling  very  tired  from  her 


THE  LOST  HEIR  121 

long  journey,  excused  herself  and  retired  to  her  cham 
ber. 

The  next  day,  and  every  intervening  day  until  that 
of  the  funeral,  Eglantine  spent  several  hours  with 
Lady  Margaret  Douglas.  And  though  she  caused  her 
to  weep,  she  felt  that  she  did  her  good. 

On  Tuesday,  the  eighth  day  since  the  Duke  of  Chev 
iot's  death,  his  funeral  obsequies  were  performed. 

It  was  a  magnificent  and  solemn  pageant.  All  the 
nobility  and  gentry  of  the  country  side  attended  in 
person  or  sent  their  carriages,  though  these  latter  were 
of  little  use,  because  the  body  of  the  duke  was  to  be 
laid  for  the  present  in  the  vault  of  the  ancient  chapel  of 
Trosach  Castle.  Later  on,  it  was  destined  to  be  re 
moved  to  the  old  family  vault  at  Cheviot  Castle. 

But  Cheviot  Castle  was  just  now  in  the  hands  of 
strangers,  who,  though  their  right  of  occupancy  ex 
pired  with  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Cheviot,  who  had 
signed  away  his  life  interest  in  the  same,  could  not  in 
common  courtesy  be  required  to  vacate  the  premises 
at  a  moment's  warning.  Thus  the  corpse  of  the  Duke 
of  Cheviot  became  a  temporary  tenant  of  the  vault  un 
der  Trosach  Chapel. 

After  the  funeral,  the  young  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Cheviot  took  their  orphaned  relative,  the  youthful 
Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  to  their  hearts  and  homes. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    INFANT    EARL. 

The  weeks  passed  on.  Early  in  June  the  Queen 
held  a  drawing-room.  And  the  young  Duchess  of  Chev 
iot  was  presented,  on  her  marriage,  by  the  Marchioness 
of  Shetland.  The  youth,  beauty  and  grace  of  this  new 
debutante  into  court  circles  made  the  sensation  of  the 
day.  Her  presentation  was  a  perfect  success.  After 
this  triumph,  she  might  have  become  the  reigning  belle 
and  the  queen  of  fashion  for  the  short  remainder  of  the 


122  THE  LOST  HEIR 

season,  but  for  one  circumstance.  It  became  neces 
sary  that  the  young  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Cheviot 
should  leave  London  for  Cheviot  Castle,  Invernesshire, 
in  anticipation  of  an  important  family  event. 

An  heir  was  expected,  and  it  was  deemed  fit  and 
proper  that  the  little  stranger  should  first  see  the  light 
in  the  old  ancestral  halls  of  its  race.  So  to  Cheviot 
Castle,  in  the  warm  month  of  July,  they  went. 

On  the  west  coast  of  Invernesshire,  there  is  a  small 
bay  making  up  from  the  Atlantic.  It  runs  about  a  mile 
inland,  and  is  surrounded  by  high  mountainous  cliffs. 
Within  the  embrace  of  this  bay,  and  almost  as  large 
as  the  bay,  stands  a  high,  rocky  island,  surrounded  on 
three  sides  by  a  deep,  narrow  arm  of  the  sea,  and 
bounded  on  the  fourth  by  the  open  sea  itself.  On  this 
isolated  island  stands  the  ancient  feudal  hold  or  fort 
ress  known  as  Cheviot  Castle;  memorable  for  its  great 
antiquity,  its  immense  strength,  and  its  historical  fame 
and  family  associations.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  place 
to  live  in.  All  the  fine  London  flunkies  carried  thither 
in  the  train  of  the  duke  and  duchess,  voted  it  "an  'or- 
rid  hold  'ole,"  and  existence  there  "a  hawful  bore." 
Only  old  Elspeth  thought  it  was  "an  unco  grand  auld 
place." 

Whoever  was  right,  at  all  events  there,  on  the  thir 
tieth  day  of  October,  to  the  young  duke  and  duchess 
of  Cheviot  was  born  a  son,  who,  in  the  next  year's  issue 
of  Burke's  Peerage,  was  duly  recorded  as: 

William-Alexander-Cromarte-Seton-Douglas,  Earl  of 
Wellrose. 

They  continued  to  reside  at  Cheviot  Castle  until  the 
first  of  December,  when  they  went  south,  and  took  pos 
session  of  their  handsome  seaside  residence  on  Bruns 
wick  Terrace,  Brighton,  which,  except  Torquay,  is  the 
brightest,  mildest  and  pleasantest  winter  quarters  in 
all  England. 

In  February  they  went  up  to  London  and  opened 
their  magnificent  town  house  in  Piccadilly. 

There  Lady  Margaret  Douglas,  who  had  been  spend 
ing  several  months  on  the  Continent  with  the  March 
ioness  of  Shetland  as  her  guest,  came  home  to  them. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  123 

Early  as  it  now  was  in  the  London  season,  all  their 
friends  were  already  in  town.  The  Marquis  and  Mar 
chioness  of  Shetland  were  at  the  house  in  Park  Lane. 

The  Earl  and  Countess  Dowager  of  Ornoch  were  at 
Westbourne  Terrace. 

The  Chimbozas  were  in  South  Audley  street. 

And  Captain  Francis  Harry  was  on  duty  at  St. 
James'. 

And  on  the  fourteenth  of  this  month  there  was  an 
other  pageant  at  St.  George's  Church,  Hanover  Square, 
upon  which  occasion  the  rights  of  holy  baptism  were 
administered  to  the  infant  Earl  of  Wellrose,  when  a 
bishop,  assisted  by  two  priests,  officiated ;  and  two  royal 
dukes  stood  as  godfathers,  and  a  princess  of  the  blood 
as  godmother. 

As  the  christening  party  came  out  of  the  church  to 
enter  their  carriages,  they  were  stared  at  by  the  usual 
crowd  of  wretched  idlers,  who,  amid  all  their  own 
squalor  and  misery,  seemed  to  delight  in  a  spectacle  of 
pomp  and  splendor,  as  in  some  free  theatrical  exhibi 
tion. 

Among  this  crowd  stood  one  who  took  no  pleasure 
in  this  scene — a  tall,  dark  woman,  haggard  in  features 
and  tattered  in  dress.  She  was  staring,  with  gleaming 
eyes  and  gathering  brows,  upon  the  pageantry  before 
her. 

She  held  by  the  hand  a  fair,  wan  child  of  about  two 
years  of  age.  His  delicate,  thinly-clad  form  was  shiv 
ering  with  cold  and  famine,  and  his  fine,  light  hair  was 
blown  about  by  the  wind,  but  his  clear  blue  eyes  were 
beaming  in  sympathy  with  the  gay  and  happy  party 
he  saw  before  him.  Though  from  his  tender  age  and 
physical  weakness  he  was  scarcely  able  to  keep  his  feet, 
he  danced  with  delight  and  clapped  his  little  hands  and 
shouted. 

And  when  the  beautiful  young  mother  came  out  of 
the  church,  veiled  and  holding  her  head  down  to  pro 
tect  her  face  from  the  high  winds,  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  her  handsome  husband,  and  followed  by  the  nurse, 
bearing  the  child,  the  poor  little  outcast  shouted  again 


124  THE  LOST  HEIR 

with  delight,  and  pulled  the  woman's  skirts,  and  cried, 
joyfully : 

"Oh,  mammy;  'ook!  ook!  hee!  hee!  booful  lady;  boo- 
ful  baby!" 

"Be  quiet,  Benny !"  scowled  and  growled  the  woman. 
"I  hate  'em !  I  hate  'em  all !  They  are  devils !  proud, 
scornful,  cruel,  heartless  devils!  One  such  as  them 
had  a  child  she  didn't  want  to  own,  and  she  heaved  it 
to  the  dogs  to  perish.  I  don't  know  who  she  was,  but 
the  child  she  heaved  to  the  dogs  was  you,  Benny,  and 
the  dog  that  picked  you  up  was  me.  I  wish  I  could 
find  her!  I  wish  I  could  kill  her!  I  wish  I  could  kill 
?em  all,  and  send  'em  to  burning " 

"Come!  you're  drunk!  Move  on  there!"  said  a  po 
liceman,  interrupting  Madge's  growling  monologue, 
by  taking  her  by  the  shoulder  and  turning  her  about. 

And  so  Madge  Hurst,  for  the  woman  was  no  other, 
"moved  on"  with  the  child  in  her  hand,  never  guessing 
that  she  had  ever  met  that  elegantly-dressed,  veiled 
lady  before. 

And  the  beautiful  young  Duchess  of  Cheviot  entered 
her  carriage  without  ever  suspecting  that  she  had 
passed  so  near  the  woman  and  child  for  whom  she  had 
looked  and  inquired  so  long  and  so  vainly. 

And  the  elder  brother,  the  innocent  little  outcast, 
was  dragged  off  by  a  desperate  and  drunken  woman 
to  his  squalid  garret  in  the  London  rookery,  to  suffer 
and  pine  in  want  and  sin. 

And  the  younger  brother,  the  infant  earl,  was  borne 
away  by  his  happy  mother  to  his  palace  home,  to  live 
and  smile  in  the  lap  of  luxury  and  the  sunlight  of  love. 

On  the  seventh  of  May  there  was  a  splendid  pageant 
at  St.  Peter's  Church,  Eaton  Square ;  a  double  wedding 
in  high  life,  in  which  Alexander,  Earl  of  Ornoch,  was 
united  in  marriage  to  Hinda,  only  daughter  and  heir 
ess  of  General  Chimboza,  late  of  the  Honorable  East 
India  Company's  Service,  and  Captain  Francis  Harry, 
of  the  Royal  Guards,  to  the  Lady  Margaret  Douglas, 
sole  surviving  daughter  of  the  late  Duke  of  Cheviot. 

The  church  was  crowded  with  the  friends  of  the  two 


THE  LOST  HEIR  125 

young  bridal  pairs.  And  the  space  in  front  of  the 
church  was  crowded  with  carriages. 

At  the  close  of  the  ceremonies  the  whole  party  ad 
journed  to  the  house  of  General  and  Mrs.  Chimboza, 
where  a  sumptuous  and  elegant  wedding-breakfast 
awaited  them. 

Here  speeches  were  made  and  toasts  were  drank,  and 
the  festivity  kept  up  for  nearly  three  hours,  at  the  end 
of  which  the  brides  changed  their  bridal  dresses  for 
traveling  suits,  and  started  with  their  bridegrooms  for 
their  wedding  tours. 

The  young  Earl  and  Countess  of  Ornoch  went  to  the 
Continent. 

Captain  and  Lady  Margaret  Harry  went  no  further 
off  than  the  Westmoreland  Lakes. 

There  was  fine  weather  in  London  now,  in  this 
"merry  month  of  May."  And  the  young  Duchess  of 
Cheviot  drove  out  daily  with  her  boy  and  his  nurse. 

Though  a  fine,  healthy  child  in  body,  he  was  very 
delicate  and  sensitive  in  mind.  He  could  scarcely  en 
dure  to  see  pain,  yet  his  mother  taught  him  to  look  upon 
it,  to  pity  it  and  to  relieve  it.  And  whenever,  in  the 
course  of  their  daily  drives,  the  boy  would  shrink  and 
hide  his  head  from  the  sight  of  some  tattered,  fam 
ished,  diseased  beggar,  his  mother  would  gently  turn 
him  around,  and  direct  his  attention  to  the  object  of 
misery,  and  murmur,  in  tones  of  tenderest  compas 
sion: 

"Look,  Willie — poor  man!  poor,  poor  man.  Willie! 
Give  him  something,  Willie!"  And  then  she  would 
slip  a  coin  into  the  boy's  hand,  and  make  him  the  me 
dium  of  her  charities. 

And  so  the  boy  grew  in  grace  and  favor,  and  in  all 
gentle  humanities  and  Christian  affections. 

And  meanwhile  his  little  elder  brother  was  not  only 
shut  out  from  all  the  comforts  and  necessaries  of  life, 
but  from  all  domestic  love,  and  all  good  and  holy  in 
fluences. 


126  THE  LOST  HEIR 

CHAPTEK  XVII. 

THE    LITTLE    OUTCAST. 

"Well  then,  keep  out  of  my  way,  you  little  devil! 
Ain't  it  enough  to  be  burdened  with  one's  own  business 
without  being  bothered  along  o'  other  people's  casta 
way  brats?  Hold  yer  noise  now,  before  I  give  yer 
something  to  howl  for  !" 

Madge  Hurst,  to  use  her  own  expression,  was  up  to 
her  eyes  in  work,"  though  this  was  Sunday  morning. 
She  had  been  scouring  pots  and  pans  and  washing  win 
dows,  and  then  she  was  down  on  her  knees  scrubbing 
the  floor,  when  little  Benny,  in  his  chi  dish  efforts  to 
help  her  got  into  her  way,  and  got  himse  If  knocked 
down  and  hurt;  for  he  was  a  very  weak  little  fellow, 
anl  easily  upset  also  very  sensitive  and  easily  affected 

There  was  no  mother  to  pick  him  up  and  soothe  his 
pain  with  tender  caresses;  there  was  only  Madge  to 
seize  and  shake  him  and  scream  at  him,  until  his  little 
heart  trembled  with  grief  and  terror 

For  the  slight  mistake  of  trying  with  his  tiny  hands 
to  help  her  she  reproached  him  as  fiercely  as  if,  instead 
of  being  an  innocent  child,  he  had  been  a  vicious  man 

And  the  little  one  crept  away  to  a  corner,  and  sobbed 


r  ceaning  up,  this  spring  Sun- 

dav  morning,  was  that  Madge  and  Tony  Brice  were 
gofng  to  be  married  this  day,  and  the  wedding-feast 
was  to  be  held  in  Madge's  room  this  night. 

Madge  worked  with  a  will,  and  soon  competed  her 
task  and  then  she  washed  and  dressed  herse  f  m  her 
best  holiday  clothes-a  thin  and  tarnished  yellow  silk 
eown  bought  second-hand  from  Mrs.  Kempton's  shop 
for  five  shillings,  and  a  square,  flowered  shawl,  and  a 
Vzhorn  bonnet,  trimmed  with  green  ribbon  from  the 
lame  repository  of  cast-off  finery.  And  Madge  sur- 
Tpd  Self  in  the  cracked  and  mildewed  oval  mirror 
IhafhSoveV  \er  chest  of  drawers  between  the  two 
back  windows,  and  was  well  satisfied.  And,  m  fact, 


THE  LOST  HEIE  127 

her  appearance  was  rather  picturesque  than  otherwise ; 
for  no  absurdity  of  costume  could  possibly  detract 
from  the  effect  of  the  savage  creature's  rough,  dark, 
wild  beauty. 

So  pleased  with  herself  was  this  "bride-elect,"  that 
she  went  to  the  corner  cupboard,  where  the  viands  for 
the  wedding-feast  was  stored,  and  took  a  piece  of  gin 
gerbread  and  carried  it  to  the  sobbing  child  in  the 
corner  and  gave  it  to  him,  saying : 

"There,  take  that  and  stop  crying,  you  little  brat!" 

"Love  Benny,  mammy!  Oh,  pease  love  Benny!" 
sobbed  the  child,  his  desolate  little  heart  longing  for 
an  embrace. 

"Oh,  there!  now  stow  all!  Take  your  cake,  and  let 
your  vittles  stop  your  mouth,"  said  Madge,  turning 
away  to  look  up  her  blue  cotton  gloves. 

"Why,  w'at's  the  matter  wi'  my  little  man?"  in 
quired  the  rough  voice  of  an  individual  who  had  just 
entered  the  room. 

It  was  Tony  Brice,  dressed  very  smartly  in  his  holi 
day  clothes,  with  his  shock  of  red  hair  plastered  down 
with  grease,  that  had  turned  it  to  a  reddish  brown, 
and  made  it  a  funny  contrast  to  his  full  and  fiery 
beard. 

"What's  the  matter,  old  fellow?"  he  again  asked  the 
child. 

"Mammy  won't  tiss  me!  mammy  won't  love  me!" 
sobbed  Benny. 

"She  won't,  eh?  Then  swear  at  her,  my  man!  That 
is  the  way  to  treat  the  women  when  they  won't  mind 
you,"  said  Tony  Brice,  with  a  loud  laugh,  as  he  lifted 
the  child  in  his  arms. 

And  Madge,  instead  of  rebuking  him,  laughed  loudly 
also. 

"Come  now,  my  jolly  boy,  let's  see  you  shake  your 

fist  at  her  and  swear  so "  said  the  man;  and  then 

and  there  he  taught  the  child  a  fearful  oath,  thinking 
it  "good  fun"  to  hear  the  innocent  baby  lips  repeat  the 
blasphemies  put  into  its  mouth. 

And  the  child,  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the  words, 
tkinking  it  was  all  play,  and  wishing  to  please  "mam- 


128  THE  LOST  HEIR 

my,"  whom  he  loved,  and  "daddy,"  as  he  already  called 
his  rough  friend,  tried  his  very  best  to  learn  the  lesson 
and  swear  the  oath.  And  when  he  had  succeeded  he 
clapped  his  hands  for  joy,  and  was  rewarded  with  an 
other  piece  of  cake,  while  Madge  and  Tony  laughed. 

"And  now,  Madge,  old  gal,  it's  time  to  go  to  church, 
if  we  expect  to  be  spliced  to-day,  because  the  sexton 
told  me  we  must  be  there  an  hour  before  morning  serv 
ice,  else  it  couldn't  be  done.  It's  most  ten  o'clock  now, 
you  know,  and  sarvice  begins  at  eleven,"  urged  Tony. 

There  was  a  sound  of  laughter  in  the  passage  out 
side.  And  Tony  immediately  exclaimed: 

"There!  there's  my  groomsman  outside  a  talking  to 
your  bridesmaids!  Let's  go." 

"Yes.  Benny,  you  stay  here  and  be  quiet  till  we 
come  back;  do  you  hear?"  said  Madge. 

"  'Es,  mammy !  Benny  be  twiet !"  said  the  child. 
The  engaged  couple  went  outside,  where  they  were 
joined  by  the  Misses  Flowers,  in  smart  white  mull  mus 
lin  dresses  and  chip  hats,  all  trimmed  with  pink  rib 
bons,  and  also  by  John  Hobbs,  a  fellow-fireman  of 
Tony's. 

The  five  went  downstairs  and  went  on  in  an  orderly 
procession  to  the  church. 

It  was  a  very  ancient,  very  dilapidated  and  compara 
tively  unfrequented  church. 

Around  the  door  was  a  small  crowd  of  idlers  of  the 
lowest  order,  drawn  together  by  the  rumor  of  a  mar 
riage  in  their  own  class.  At  the  dor  sat  old  Ruth 
Drug,  Madge's  mother,  silently  holding  out  her  skinny 
hand  to  any  chance  passer-by  and  receiving  now  and 
then  a  penny.  As  the  wedding-party  reached  the  door 
she  hobbled  up  on  her  feet  and  went  in  before  them. 

The  pews  nearest  the  chancel  were  filled  up  with  the 
friends  of  the  parties.  There  were  old  Daddy  and 
Granny  Flowers  and  old  Ruth  Drug  in  one  pew,  the 
Junipers  in  another,  and  the  Kemptons  in  a  third. 

The  curate  on  duty  at  the  altar  scarcely  waited  for 
the  wedding-party  to  form  in  front  of  him  before  he 
opened  the  prayerbook  and  commenced  the  ceremony, 
which  he  hurried  through  with  almost  irreverent 


THE  LOST  HEIR  129 

haste.  But  he  was  scarcely  to  be  blamed,  for  the  bell 
was  already  ringing  to  call  Christians  to  the  morning 
service.  At  the  close  of  the  ceremony  the  denizens  of 
Junk  lane  clustered  about  Madge  and  Tony  with  their 
good  wishes,  very  much  after  the  manner  in  which  the 
lords  and  ladies  of  Belgravia  crowd  with  congratula 
tions  around  the  noble  bride  and  bridegroom  married 
by  a  bishop  at  St.  George's  or  St.  Peter's. 

And  now  the  marriage  was  duly  registered,  and  the 
newly-married  man  and  woman,  followed  by  all  their 
party,  went  back  to  the  old  house  in  Junk  lane. 

That  Sunday  evening  there  was  great  feasting  in 
Madge's  room.  All  their  fellow-lodgers  in  the  house 
were  invited,  and  also  many  of  Tony  Brice's  water-side 
friends.  There  was  only  one  absentee — Rachel  Wood. 
And  the  room  was  very  much  crowded,  and  they  ate 
and  drank  and  sang  and  danced  as  though  this  were 
not  the  Sabbath  evening.  And  the  company  might 
have  been  broken  up  by  the  police,  had  it  not  been  in 
a  back  room  on  the  third  floor,  where  their  noise  could 
scarcely  reach  the  street.  That  evening,  too,  all  the 
rude  guests  were  very  kind  to  little  Benny,  according 
to  their  notions  of  kindness.  They  fed  the  child  with 
unwholesome  food,  and  plied  him  with  as  much  sweet 
ened  rum  and  water  as  his  tender  brain  could  possibly 
bear,  and  then  excited  him  to  monkey  antics. 

"Where's  Rachel  Wood?  Why  an't  she  here?"  in 
quired  Mrs.  Juniper,  who  had  found  her  way  to  the 
side  of  Madge  Brice. 

"Oh,  why,  you  know  Rachel  never  leaves  her  sister 
no  how,  'cept  to  fetch  and  carry  work  on  week  days; 
not  as  I  think  she'd  go  to  a  merry-making  o'  Sundays 
anywhays.  But  I'm  glad  you  asked  me,  Missus  Juni 
per,  for  that  'minds  me  I  ought  to  take  something  to 
her  and  Matty,"  said  Madge ;  and,  pushing  rudely  past 
Fanny  Flowers,  who  stood  in  her  way,  she  called  Tony 
Brice  to  her  side,  and  she  went  to  the  cupboard  and 
filled  a  plate  with  bread,  cheese,  cakes  and  apples,  and 
filled  a  pitcher  with  spiced  rum,  and  took  up  the  plate 
herself,  and  ordered  Tony  to  take  up  the  pitcher  and 


130  THE  LOST  HEIE 

follow  her.     Tony  good-naturedly  obeyed.    And  they 
went  to  Rachel  Wood's  room. 

Tony  passed  in  front  of  Madge,  and  opened  the  door 
and  looked  in. 

And  then  a  vision  met  his  eyes  that  shocked  and 
sobered  him  like  a  sudden  douche  of  ice  water. 

On  the  white  bed  lay  a  form  just  as  white,  and  very 
still.  On  one  side  knelt  Rachel  Wood,  clasping  her 
sister's  cold  hand,  and  gazing  into  her  sister's  glazed 
eyes  as  if  hoping  still  for  one  more  answering  ray  of 
light.  On  the  other  side  knelt  a  lady,  a  stranger,  with 
her  hand  clasping  the  pale  hand  of  the  dying  girl,  and 
with  her  head  bowed  over  it  in  prayer. 

"My  Lord!  Here's  death  here!"  whispered  Brice 
under  his  breath,  as  he  softly  closed  the  door.  "Come 
away,  Madge,  girl !  This  is  awful !  We  must  send  all 
them  gals  and  fellows  away." 

Madge,  struck  dumb  with  awe,  followed  him  back  to 
their  own  room,  where  their  very  faces  at  once  pro 
claimed  that  something  serious  had  happened,  or  was 
about  to  happen. 

Every  one  silently  departed.  Those  who  lodged  in 
the  house  quietly  retired  to  their  rooms  to  wait  silently 
there.  And  the  others  went  away  to  their  homes.  And 
the  old  tenement  was  at  once  restored  to  the  order  and 
quiet  befitting  the  solemn  presence  of  death. 

Let  us  enter  the  chamber  of  death  for  a  moment  and 
see  what  is  going  on  there.  Nothing  is  as  yet  changed 
since  Tony  Brice  opened  the  door  and  looked  in,  just 
fifteen  minutes  ago.  The  white  form  still  lies  upon  the 
white  bed,  and  the  two  young  women  still  kneel,  the 
one  upon  the  right,  the  other  on  the  left  side,  and 
watch.  At  length  there  comes  a  deep  sigh  from  the 
pale  lips,  and  then  all  is  still. 

"That  is  the  last,"  whispered  the  stranger  lady,  ris 
ing  from  her  knees. 

And  then  the  sister's  strained  nerves  gave  way,  and 
she  fell  to  weeping  bitterly  by  the  side  of  her  dead. 

The  lady  stood  in  reverential  silence.  She  did  not 
attempt  to  comfort  the  mourner  then.  She  could  not 
bear  to  intrude  on  the  first  sacred  moments  of  such  a 


THE  LOST  HEIR  131 

grief.  She  turned  silently  to  the  dead.  And  she  drew 
a  handkerchief  from  her  pocket  and  tenderly  tied  up 
the  relaxed  jaws,  and  closed  the  faded  eyes.  She  was 
still  standing  with  her  thumbs  softly  pressed  upon  the 
shut  lids,  when  Rachel  Wood,  who  had  cried  herself 
into  calmness,  got  up  and  came  around  to  her,  saying: 

"Thanks,  dear  lady!  Oh,  thanks!  Oh,  how  many 
thanks!  What  should  I  have  done  this  awful  night 
without  you?" 

"Hush,  dear!  not  one  word  more.     If  I  had  not  come, 
the  good  Lord  would  have  sent  you  some  one  else.  '. 
Come,  now,  dear,  lock  the  door  to  keep  people  out,  and 
you  and  I  will  quietly  do  all  that  is  needful  here." 

"You,  Mrs.  Melliss  ?    You  ?     Why,  you  cannot !   You 

have  not  been  used  to  doing "  began  Rachel;  but 

she  broke  down  and  wept. 

"Hush,  dear.  I  have  been  used  to  doing  more  than 
you  think.  I  will  help  you  now.  And  to-night  I  will 
stay  with  you.  And  to-morrow  I  will  order  everything 
that  is  requisite  to  be  done,  so  that  you  need  not  dis 
tress  yourself  about  details,"  said  the  lady,  with  so 
much  gentle  firmness  that  Rachel  Wood  could  only 
weep  and  obey. 

The  door  was  locked,  for  these  two  good  women  did 
not  want  any  of  those  late  rioters  and  profaners  of  the 
Sabbath  to  break  in  upon  their  holy  calm  with  any  offi 
cious  proffers  of  service. 

And  who  was  Mrs.  Melliss?  Why,  in  the  first  place, 
as  you  might  see  at  a  glance,  she  was  a  very  beautiful 
young  woman,  with  the  face  of  an  angel — a  small,  per 
fectly  formed  graceful  woman,  with  delicate  features, 
a  clear,  pale  complexion,  deeply-fringed,  soft-brown 
eyes,  and  crispy,  curling  bright,  brown  hair,  and  a  very 
sweet  mouth. 

So  much  you  might  see  for  yourself.  But  if  you  had 
asked  Rachel  Wood  who  that  lovely  lady  was,  she  could 
have  told  you  that  Mrs.  Melliss  was  the  loving  and  be 
loved  young  wife  of  an  old  Lombard  street  banker  of 
three  times  her  years;  that  her  husband  was  a  widower, 
who  had  disinherited  his  only  daughter  on  account  of 
the  girl  having  eloped  with  a  gay  dragoon;  and  who 


132  THE  LOST  HEIR 

had  subsequently  married  the  youngest  and  brightest 
of  a  large  family  of  girls,  daughters  of  a  needy,  half- 
pay  major,  living  at  Kemptown,  Brighton.  And,  fur 
ther,  that  Mrs.  Meliss  had  employed  her,  Rachel  Wood, 
to  do  plain  sewing,  and  had  given  her  good  wages  for 
three  years  past. 

Now,  when  their  sacred  task  was  completed,  and  a 
clean,  fine  white  sheet,  saved  for  this  purpose,  was  care 
fully  spread  over  the  still  white  form,  the  two  young 
women — the  banker's  wife  and  the  poor  seamstress — 
sat  down  to  watch  for  day. 

They  sat  a  long  time  in  silence,  which  Rachel  Wood 
was  the  first  to  break. 

"Mrs.  Melliss,  may  I  ask  you  a  question?"  she  in 
quired. 

"Certainly,  dear." 

"Have  you  heard  any  news  of — of " 

"Of  Melinda?  No,  dear,  not  since  her  unfortunate 
husband  was  discharged  for  intemperance/'  sighed  the 
lady. 

"And   her  father " 

"Is  still  unrelenting,  dear." 

Rachel  sighed,  and  both  relapsed  into  silence. 

They  watched  together  through  the  darkness  of  the 
night  and  into  the  dawning  of  the  day.  When  the  sun 
was  up,  Angela  Melliss  kissed  the  mourner,  promised  to 
return  in  the  course  of  the  day,  and  went  away  on  foot, 
walking  until  she  reached  the  Strand,  where  she  called 
a  cab  to  take  her  to  Charles  street. 

She  entered  her  husband's  dressing-room  just  as  he 
was  brushing  his  hair. 

A  very  handsome  man  was  the  banker;  really  sixty, 
but  scarcely  looking  fifty  years  of  age.  He  was  tall  and 
stout,  with  very  dark  hair,  and  beard  and  well-marked 
eyebrows,  and,  with  glowing  dark  eyes,  a  rich,  ruddy 
complexion,  and  an  expression  full  of  genial  warmth. 

As  he  turned  and  saw  his  wife,  he  dropped  his  hair 
brushes  and  came  and  embraced  her,  asking : 

"And  where  now  has  my  little  sister  of  the  poor 
been?" 


THE  LOST  HEIE  133 

"Watching  beside  a  dying  bed,  dearest.  The  sick 
girl  I  told  you  of  is  gone,"  she  answered. 

"Ah,  poor  thing!     What  can  we  do,  Angel?" 

"We  can  bury  her.  Her  sister  is  not  able  to  do  it 
herself,  and  is  not  willing  to  let  the  parish  do  it." 

"Very  well,  my  darling.  I  will  send  Brown  to  give 
the  necessary  orders.  But,  as  for  you,  you  must  not 
worry  yourself  another  bit.  You  must  go  and  lie 
down,  and  have  some  tea  and  toast  brought  to  you." 

She  laughed  and  kissed  him,  and  then  went  away  to 
follow  his  advice. 

And,  a  few  days  after  this,  the  remains  of  poor  Mar 
tha  Wood  were  laid  in  the  churchyard  of  that  old 
church,  in  which  Madge  Hurst  and  Tony  Brice  had 
been  so  recently  married. 


CHAPTEK  XVIII. 

A   FAIRY   GRANDMOTHER. 

«^ 
Angela  Melliss  was  very  much  younger  than  her  hus 
band,  but  it  is  a  question   whether  more  perfect  love 
reigned  in  any  household. 
I        The  banker  made  munificent  settlements  upon  his 
young  bride,  yielding  her  a  princely  income  that  en 
abled  her  to  indulge  her  benevolent  sympathies  to  the 
utmost. 

She  was  very  seldom  imposed  upon  even  by  the  ex 
perienced  London  street  beggars.     Her  purity  of  heart/ 
made  her  a  discoverer  of  spirits.     She  could  at  once/ 
;    discriminate  between  a  sufferer  and  an  impostor,  al-l 
though  she  could  not  have  told  you  the  reason  why. 

But  in  all  her  almsgiving  and  personal  serving  she\ 
did  not  forget  that  "charity  begins  at  home."  She 
neglected  no  part  of  her  duty  to  her  husband,  her  step 
son  or  her  servants.  She  also  did  a  great  deal  for  "the 
girls,"  as  she  naively  called  six  maiden  half-sisters, 
the  youngest  of  whom  was  ten  years  older  than  herself. 
Surely  never  was  a  chaperone  more  successful  in  se- 


134  THE  LOST  HEIR 

curing  establishments  for  her  charge.  Before  the  sea 
son  was  over  she  had  married  off  both  her  maiden  sis 
ters  advantageously — Arabella  to  a  pursy  broker  of 
forty-five,  and  Belinda  to  a  banker's  clerk  of  forty-two. 

The  banker  admitted  that  the  "girls"  were  very 
handsome  and  showy  women,  but  declared  that  he 
thought  the  broker  and  the  clerk  had  married  them 
partly  for  the  sake  of  having  Angela  for  a  sister-in-law! 

After  the  double  marriage  ceremony  by  which  these 
two  "girls"  were  made  women,  and  at  which  all  the 
other  "girls"  assisted  as  bridesmaids,  Angela  invited 
her  next  two  in  order  to  come  and  live  with  her ;  these 
were  Carolina  and  Dorothea,  aged  respectively  thirty- 
four  and  thirty-six. 

And,  to  be  brief,  she  married  these  two  off  in  the 
course  of  the  next  year — Caroline  to  a  physician  with 
a  good  city  practice,  and  Dorothea  to  a  fox-hunting 
country  squire. 

And  in  the  third  year  she  disposed  of  Frances  to  an 
elderly  barrister-at-law,  and  her  favorite  Agnes  to  a 
very  handsome  and  very  eloquent  young  minister  of  the 
Gospel. 

If  all  these  marriages,  except  the  last,  were  rather 
mercenary  on  the  part  of  the  handsome  "girls,"  An 
gela  never  suspected  the  fact.  For  she  herself  had 
married  a  wealthy  man  thirty  years  her  senior  without 
one  selfish  thought  given  to  his  wealth,  and  she  loved 
him  with  a  pure  and  fervent  affection.  How,  then, 
could  she  suspect  or  even  comprehend  mercenary  or 
even  mixed  motives  in  marriage?  Her  marriage  was 
perfect  in  its  love,  trust  and  contentment.  She  loved 
and  honored  her  husband  far  above  all  other  earthly 
beings.  And  he  loved  and  trusted  her  utterly. 

She  could  do  what  she  pleased  with  him,  except  in 
one  particular — she  could  not  induce  him  to  forgive  his 
refractory  daughter  Melinda,  who  had  run  away  and 
got  married  to  her  good-for-nothing  cousin,  Charles 
Faulkner — Captain  Faulkner,  of  the  Hussars — who 
had  gambled  away  his  own  fortune  before  he  ran  away 
with  the  banker's  daughter,  in  the  hope,  said  the  bank 
er,  of  gaining  another  fortune. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  135 

"If  Melinda's  mother  had  been  living  she  would  have 
gained  Melinda's  forgiveness.  I  am  now  in  her  mother's 
place,  and  will  do  a  mother's  part  by  her,"  said  the 
banker's  pretty  little  wife  to  herself. 

And  so,  sincerely  and  earnestly,  she  tried  to  gain  the 
daughter's  pardon  from  the  father,  but  tried  in  vain. 
In  all  other  respects  her  indulgent  husband  was  as  wax 
in  her  hands ;  in  that  respect  he  was  as  adamant. 

Once  she  thought  she  saw  her  way  to  win  him  to  for 
giveness.  She  happened  to  read  in  the  "Births,  Mar 
riages  and  Deaths"  column  of  the  Times  this  para 
graph  : 

"At  Brighton,  on  the  fifteenth  instant,  the  wife  of 
Captain  Faulkner,  of  the Hussars,  of  a  daughter." 

She  went  with  this  to  her  husband,  seated  herself  on 
his  lap,  put  her  arm  around  his  neck,  kissed  him,  and 
then  said: 

"Dearest,  congratulate  me.     I  am  a  grandmother!" 

And  she  pointed  to  the  paragraph  and  looked  up  in 
his  face. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  what  she  meant,  the  funny  aspect 
of  the  question  struck  him  first,  and  struck  him  so  for 
cibly  that  he  burst  out  laughing  and  caught  her  to  his 
heart. 

Then  she  thought  certainly  that  he  would  be  merciful 
to  his  daughter.  And  she  pleaded  eloquently  for  her, 
but  pleaded  in  vain.  Then  she  tried  to  laugh  and  jest 
and  coax  him  into  compliance  with  her  wishes. 

"I  want  to  see  my  little  grandchild,"  she  said ;  "I  am 
so  fond  of  children,  and  Heaven  denies  me  children  of 
my  own ;  and  I  want  to  see  my  little  grandchild  so  very, 
very  much !" 

"What  a  funny  little  grandmother!  what  a  fairy  lit 
tle  grandmother!  Ay,  that  will  do — a  fairy  grand 
mother!"  smiled  the  old  banker,  running  his  fingers 
through  the  soft  brown  curls  that  nearly  hid  the  face 
of  his  young  wife. 

So  he  jested  with  her,  and  he  laughed  at  her  and  pet 
ted  her,  but  he  would  not  yield  one  inch  to  her  wishes. 

That  same  day,  however,  Angela  ordered  her 
brougham  and  drove  to  "Asser's,"  in  Regent  street,  and 


136  THE  LOST  HEIR 

spent  a  hundred  guineas  on  a  complete  and  beautiful 
outfit  for  the  infant,  comprising  embroidered  robes, 
slips  and  underclothing  of  the  finest  fabrics  and 
trimmed  with  the  most  delicate  lace,  and  also  a  deco 
rated  berceaunette. 

These  she  had  packed  and  directed  to  "Mrs.  Charles 
Faulkner,  care  of  Captain  Faulkner,  Brighton  Bar 
racks."  In  the  inside  of  the  parcel  was  a  card  on 
which  was  written  the  line: 

For  Miss  Faulkner,  from  her  fairy  grandmother. 

Very  welcome,  you  may  depend,  was  the  rich  pres 
ent  to  the  poor  young  mother,  living  in  the  captain's 
limited  quarters  and  living  on  the  captain's  limited 
pay — most  of  which  he  spent  in  wine  and  cigars.  But, 
though  the  card  that  accompanied  it  bore  the  words  to 
Miss  Faulkner  from  her  fairy  grandmother,  neither 
Melinda  nor  her  husband  suspected  the  quarter  from 
which  it  had  come.  They  could  not  have  guessed  that 
the  youthful  wife  of  the  banker  would  ever  have  writ 
ten  herself  down  "grandmother,"  nor  could  they  have 
given  her  credit  for  the  least  degree  of  kindly  feeling 
for  themselves. 

Meanwhile  Angela  still  pleaded  the  cause  of  the  dis 
owned  daughter,  whenever  she  could  find  a  favorable 
opoprtunity  of  doing  so,  until  one  day,  when  her  lips 
were  peremtorily  ordered  to  close  forever  upon  that 
subject. 

The  occasion  was  this:  One  morning  Mr.  Melliss 
came  into  her  boudoir  and  laid  the  Times  before  her, 
pointing  to  a  paragraph,  and  saying: 

"Child,  you  once  showed  me  a  couple  of  lines  in  this 
paper,  relative  to  the  Faulkners,  as  a  reason  why  I 
should  be  reconciled  to  them.  I  now  call  your  atten 
tion  to  this  article,  and  request  you  to  consider  it  cause 
sufficient  to  close  your  lips  on  the  subject  of  these 
Faulkners  forever." 

Angela  took  up  the  paper  and  read  an  announce 
ment  to  the  effect  that  Charles  Faulkner,  Esquire,  late 
of  the Hussars,  had  been  dismissed  from  her  ma 
jesty's  service  for  conduct  unbecoming  an  officer  and  a 
gentleman. 


THE  LOST  HEIK  137 

"Oh,  poor  fellow,  poor  fellow !  what  can  he  have  been 
doing?"  sighed  Angela. 

''Neglecting  his  duty,  drinking,  swearing,  swagger 
ing,  fighting,  gambling  and  worse !" 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  him,  and  for  his  poor  wife; 
and  oh,  for  the  poor  child !  Oh,  surely,  dearest,  for  that 
poor  little  innocent  child's  sake,  you  will  help  your 
daughter  now?" 

"I  wish  I  may  be  perfect-participled,  if  I  do!  Now, 
no  more,  Angela.  I  will  not  hear  another  word  on  that 
subject,  even  from  you." 

"But,  please  let  me  ask  a  question,  then." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Where  are  they  now?"  she  inquired,  with  a  secret 
thought  of  helping  the  mother  and  child  from  her  own 
income. 

"Somewhere  in  Tophet,  no  doubt!  I  neither  knov 
ffor  eare  in  what  exact  abyss!"  replied  the  banker, 
walking  out  of  the  room  to  avoid  the  subject. 

Angela  made  secret  enquiry  for  the  Faulkners,  but 
could  learn  nothing  beyond  this — that  they  had  left 
England  for  the  Continent,  that  great  haven  for  ship 
wrecked  lives. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MADGE'S  VENGEANCE. 

Affairs  were  still  falling  from  bad  to  worse  in  miser 
able  Junk  lane,  as  well  as  in  many  other  wretched 
abodes  of  ignorance,  vice,  want  and  disease. 

Rachel  Wood  began  to  think  that  this  house  was  no 
proper  place  for  her,  and  that  she  would  have  to  move 
away. 

There  was  only  one  person  in  the  house  with  whom 
Rachel  Wood  could  associate  with  any  comfort.  This 
was  Mary  Kempton,  the  daughter  of  the  old-clothes 
dealer  on  the  first  floor  front.  Mary  had  resisted  all 
the  blandishments  of  the  Flowers  sisters,  and  all  the 
scoldings  of  her  own  family,  and  steadily  refused  to 


138  THE  LOST  HEIR 

earn  twelve  shillings  a  week  as  a  ballet  girl  at  the  Thes 
pian.  She  cooked  the  family  meals,  mended  the  family 
clothes  and  minded  the  shop,  or  did  anything  else  they 
wanted  her  to  do,  but  she  would  not  go  on  the  stage. 

So  Mary  and  Rachel  were  good  friends ;  with  but  one 
point  of  difference  between  them.  This  was  their  creed. 
Rachel  was  a  stanch  Church-of-England  woman.  Mary 
pinned  her  faith  on  the  coat  of  the  celebrated  and  Rev. 
Mr.  Sturgeon,  and  went  to  a  dissenting  chapel. 

As  each  of  these  two  young  women  thought  herself 
right,  and  entirely  and  exclusively  right,  she  tried  to 
convert  the  other  one.  And  this  led  to  frequent  warm 
disputes,  the  only  disputes  that  ever  happened  between 
them.  At  the  end  of  these  controversies,  each  would 
pray  for  the  conversion  of  the  other.  And  all  the  time 
both  were  quite  right. 

But,  of  all  the  ne'er-do-wells  in  the  unlucky  house, 
certainly  Tony  Brice  was  the  worst,  and  Madge  was 
the  next. 

Tony  was  almost  always  drunk,  and  Madge  was  very 
seldom  sober. 

There  was  this  difference  between  them :  Tony,  when 
tipsy,  was  always  maudlin  and  good-natured — weak  in 
body  and  mind.  Madge,  under  the  same  circum 
stances,  was  always  quarrelsome  and  excitable. 

Tony  used  to  say  that  the  liquor  always  fell  into  his 
feet  and  made  him  feeble,  and  that  it  always  flew  into 
Madge's  head  and  made  her  furious. 

Had  Madge  been  a  reader  of  Shakespeare  she  might 
have  said :  "That  which  hath  made  'him'  drunk,  hath 
made  me  bold." 

But  Tony  was  falling  into  more  dangerous  ways  than 
even  those  of  drunkenness;  he  was  falling  under  the 
fascinations  of  Miss  Fanny  Flowers,  the  fair-haired 
ballet  girl  of  the  "Thespian  Temple."  And  he  took  to 
escorting  her  to  and  from  the  theatre,  and  treating  her 
to  gin  and  cakes  when  the  performance  was  over,  and 
then,  at  a  late  hour,  bringing  her  home.  For,  bless  your 
soul,  "free  love"  is  not  by  any  means  limited  to  "the 
most  enlightened  and  progressive  spirits  of  the  nine 
teenth  century;"  it  may  be  found  wherever  weakness, 


THE  LOST  HEIE  139 

folly,  selfishness  and  their  kindred  vices  are  present, 
and  good  sense,  decency  and  morality  absent,  whether 
it  be  in  the  palace  or  the  hut. 

Madge  knew  nothing  of  all  this.  If  she  had,  her  ven 
geance  would  have  been  sudden,  swift  and  sharp. 

Madge,  with  all  her  faults  and  her  fury,  was  "true  as 
steel"  to  her  friends,  and  much  too  stupid  to  under 
stand  treachery  in  others. 

One  day  Rachel  Wood  was  sitting  at  her  sewing,  put 
ting  the  last  stitches  in  a  dainty  undergarment  belong 
ing  to  a  set  she  was  making  up  for  a  lady,  when  her 
door  was  violently  thrown  open,  and  Fanny  Flowers 
burst  in,  in  wild  disorder. 

"Oh,  Miss  Rachel,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  know  you  look 
down  on  us  all!  But  if  you  are  a  Christian,  come  to 
help  us  now!" 

"Sit  down,  Fanny!  Be  quiet,  and  tell  me  what  is 
the  matter!"  said  the  seamstress  calmly,  though  she 
was  frightened  by  the  girl's  manner. 

"Oh,  Miss  Rachel !"  exclaimed  Fanny,  dropping  into 
a  chair,  and  continuing  in  an  excited  manner,  "Rose 
has  run  away,  and  grandpa  has  fallen  in  a  fit;  and  Mrs. 
Juniper  an't  in,  and  I  durstn't  ask  Madge  Brice,  be 
cause  she's  that  down  on  me!  And  there's  no  one  to 
help  us,  unless  you  will  come!" 

Rachel  Wood,  much  shocked,  laid  aside  her  needle 
work,  called  Fanny  to  follow  her,  and  walked  across 
the  passage  to  the  opposite  room,  occupied  by  the  Flow 
ers  family. 

There  she  found  a  sad  scene. 

Old  Granddaddy  Flowers  lay  upon  the  floor,  where 
he  had  fallen  on  hearing  the  news  of  his  favorite  grand 
daughter's  elopement,  a  heavy  old  man,  whom  it  would 
require  more  than  one  strong  pair  of  arms  to  lift. 

Over  him  stood  Grandmother  Flowers,  trembling  and 
whimpering  and  twisting  her  fingers  in  impotent  sor 
row. 

"It's  rum  as  did  it!"  she  whined.  "It's  rum  as  did  it 
all!  It's  rum  as  broke  down  his  constertootion,  and 
it's  rum  as  has  runned  her  to  her  ruin!  Oh,  me!  oh, 
me!  oh,  me!" 


140  THE  LOST  HEIR 

By  the  side  of  the  old  man  also  stood  two  fair  chil 
dren  who  had  come  into  the  room,  drawn  by  the  cries  of 
distress.  One  was  little  Suzy,  who  was  looking  on, 
with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  and  her  long,  fair 
hair  rolling  halfway  down  to  her  feet.  She  had  just 
come  home  with  Fanny,  from  the  morning  rehearsal  at 
the  theatre.  The  other  was  little  Benny,  who,  having,  in 
company  with  Granny  Ruth,  made  a  successful  morn 
ing's  work  in  filching  a  bunch  of  carrots  and  a  link  of 
sausage  and  some  other  trifles,  had  returned  to  the 
house  to  rest  from  his  labors. 

The  children  were  gazing  upon  the  fallen  man  with 
looks  of  astonishment  and  compassion. 

"Oh,  me!  Oh,  that  I  should  live  to  see  the  day!" 
whimpered  Grandmother  Flowers,  wringing  her  hands. 

"Come  and  sit  down  in  your  chair,  granny,  and  let 
me  attend  to  daddy,"  said  Rachel  Wood,  kindly  lead 
ing  the  old  woman  to  her  easy  old  seat  in  the  chimney 
corner. 

"Benny,  dear,  do  you  know  where  Mr.  Bentley,  the 
parish  doctor,  lives?"  said  Rachel,  addressing  the  child. 

"You  bet!  Will  I  fetch  him?"  inquired  little  Benny, 
anxious  to  help. 

"Yes;  and  tell  him  what  you  have  seen  here.  You 
are  a  very  bright  boy.  You  can  do  it." 

"All  right!     Come,  Suzy!" 

And  the  "prodigy"  picked  up  her  hat,  which  had 
fallen  upon  the  floor,  and  followed  her  friend. 

"Come,  Fanny,  lend  a  hand  here,"  said  Rachel  Wood ; 
"we  must  lift  daddy  and  lay  him  on  the  bed." 

It  was  easy  to  say  "lift  daddy,"  but  it  was  utterly  im 
possible,  with  even  their  united  strength,  to  do  it. 
"Daddy"  was  a  very  large  and  heavy  old  man,  and  Ra 
chel  and  Fanny  were  both  very  slight  and  delicate 
young  women. 

"Wait  here  till  I  see  if  I  can  find  help,"  said  Rachel, 
as  she  left  the  room  and  went  into  the  passage. 

The  first  person  she  met  there  was  Tony  Brice,  on  his 
way  to  his  room  and  to  his  dinner. 

"What's  up,  Miss  Wood?"  he  inquired     "You  looks 


THE  LOST  HEIE  Ul 

sorter  scared!     And  coming  out  of  that  room,  where 
you  never  goes." 

"Mr.  Brice,  Grandfather  Flowers  has  fallen  down 
in  a  fit,  and  we  cannot  lift  him  to  put  him  to  bed,  and 

80 » 

"Hold  hard!     Let  me  come  to  him,"  said  Tony. 

And,  passing  Rachel,  he  opened  to  door  of  the  Flow 
ers'  room,  and  went  in.  He  found  Fanny  on  her  knees 
by  the  side  of  the  old  man. 

"Fan,  lass,  what's  this?  Why  didn't  yer  send  for 
me?"  he  inquired,  coming  up  to  the  group. 

"Oh,  Tony,  I  was  frightened  of  my  life!  Madge  is 
that  down  on  me,  because  she  says  as  she  knows  all 
about  it  now.  Though  what  she  knows  all  about  as 
can  make  her  so  down  on  me,  I  can't  tell,"  added  the 
girl,  even  in  her  trouble  playing  the  hypocrite. 

"Down  on  yer,  is  she?  She  is,  is  she?  Well,  let 
that  stand  by  a  little.  I'll  sort  her!  Now,  then,  la 
dies,  what  can  I  do  for  yer?  This  here  seems  to  be 
a  bad  case!"  said  Tony. 

"We  want  you  to  help  us  lift  the  old  man  onto  the 
bed,  first  of  all,"  said  Rachel. 

"Oh,  that,  indeed!  Well,  I  won't  help  yer  to  do 
that,  but  I'll  do  it  all  myself,"  said  the  man,  squaring 
his  shoulders  and  essaying  to  lift  the  body. 

By  the  exertion  of  all  his  strength,  he  succeeded  in 
effecting  his  purpose.  By  the  time  he  had  laid  Grand 
father  Flowers  on  the  bed,  the  door  was  pushed  open, 
and  little  Benny,  who  had  been  sent  for  the  doctor,  ran 
in,  followed  by  Suzy. 

"Doctor  says  as  how  he'll  be  here  in  one  minute!" 
exclaimed  the  boy,  panting  from  the  breathless  haste 
with  which  he  had  run  his  errand. 

"I'm  thinking  as  this  be  a  job  for  a  grave-digger, 
and  not  for  the  doctor,"  remarked  Tony  Brice,  as  he 
felt  first  the  pulseless  wrist  and  then  the  motionless 
heart  of  the  old  man. 

The  parish  doctor,  true  to  his  word,  arrived  the  mo 
ment  afterward.  He  examined  the  patient,  and  then 
confirmed  the  opinion  advanced  by  Tony,  and  pro 
nounced  the  old  man  dead. 


142  THE  LOST  HEIR 

After  his  funeral  his  family  fell  into  deeper  troubles. 

Just  as  the  winter  was  setting  in  very  cold,  Fanny 
lost  her  situation  at  the  Thespian  Temple.  The  man 
agers  had  resolved  to  try  an  experiment,  which  ulti 
mately  proved  to  be  an  unsuccessful  speculation;  they 
resolved  to  discontinue  the  uleg-i tern-ate"  drama  in  fa 
vor  of  the  legitimate.  And  so  they  disbanded  their  bal 
let  corps,  and  engaged  a  ninth-rate  tragedian  of  the 
Bombastes  Furioso  order,  to  murder  Shakespeare  at  so 
much  a  night. 

Fanny  Flowers  was  out  of  employment,  out  of 
money,  out  of  spirits,  and,  as  Mr.  Tony  Brice  elegantly 
expressed  it,  ''down  on  her  luck."  Well  she  might  be. 
She  could  do  nothing  but  dance,  poor  creature,  and  she 
could  get  no  dancing  to  do.  There  was  no  money  com 
ing  into  her  poor  room  at  all.  One  article  of  furniture 
or  clothing  after  another  had  to  be  sold  or  pawned  to 
buy  food  and  fuel,  to  keep  the  old  woman  and  herself 
from  famishing  or  freezing.  To  be  sure,  they  could 
both  have  gone  to  the  Union;  but  that  would  have  in 
volved  loss  of  home  and  liberty.  And  even  the  most 
wretched  cling  to  the  poorest  home  as  long  as  they  pos 
sibly  can,  and  to  liberty  long  after  they  become  home 
less;  yes,  they  cling  to  liberty  to  the  bitter  end.  That 
was  not  the  worst  of  Fanny  Flowers'  troubles.  Her 
fellow-lodgers  all  "looked  down"  on  her.  Mrs.  Juniper 
would  not  let  her  girls  speak  to  Fanny  Flowers.  Mary 
Kempton  turned  her  head  another  way  when  she  passed 
her.  Even  kind-hearted  Rachel  Wood  carefully  avoid- 
er  her.  As  for  Madge,  she  did  so  glare  at  the  girl  with 
her  fiery  black  eyes  that  Fanny  would  fly  at  the  first 
sight  of  her. 

She  had  no  friends  in  the  house  except  Tony  Brice, 
whom  she  was  afraid  to  speak  with,  except  by  stealth. 

Why  was  this?  Fanny  knew  well  enough,  though 
she  would  not  confess  the  knowledge  to  herself. 

One  fatal  evening  Tony  Brice,  being  much  the  worse 
for  a  dozen  or  so  "thrippun'orths"  of  rum,  met  Fanny 
Flowers  in  Ship  alley. 

"Hey,  my  lass !  how  goes  it  wi'  yos?  It's  many  a  day 
since  I  had  a  word  wi'  yer,  my  girl,"  he  said,  turning 


THE  LOST  HEIR  143 

about  and  joining  her,  and  walking  by  her  side.  "Which 
way  be  you  going?" 

"I  don't  know!  Any  way!  The  shortest  way  to  my 
grave  would  be  the  best  way,  I  think,"  said  Fanny  bit 
terly. 

'•Don't  yer  talk  so,  lass!  Yer  knows  yer  got  one 
good  friend  in  me.  Don't  talk  so !" 

"How  can  I  help  it?  You  asked  me  just  now  how  it 
was  with  me.  How  do  you  expect  it  can  be?" 

"Well,  lass,  I  s'pose  yer  do  miss  all  the  merry  danc 
ing  and  singing  at  the  theatre,  and  you  find  it  dull  like 
evenings  with  the  old  un  at  home.  But  never  yer 
mind.  Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip !  They'll  want  yer  back 
ag'in,  some  o'  these  days." 

"  'Tain't  that,  Tony !  though,  true  for  you,  I  do  miss 
going  to  the  theatre  every  evening.  It  was  very  gay 
and  pleasant  there,  say  what  you  will.  And  then  one 
always  got  treated  by  somebody  when  it  was  all  over. 
And  then  there  was  the  salary,  which  was  best  of  all. 
But  it  ain't  the  loss  of  the  plays  and  the  shillings  and 
all  them  things,  Tony,  though  I  feel  them,  too." 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it,  my  lass?  Tell  me;  I'm  yer 
friend." 

"It's  everything  together,  Tony.  What,  with  grand 
father's  death  and  Rose's  running  away,  and  granny's 
dropping  down  into  her  driveling  dotage,  and  Madge  a 
flying  out  every  time  she  sees  me,  and  even  you  a  snub 
bing  me — 

"I  a  snubbing  you !" 

"Yes ;  and  what,  with  all  that,  and  the  cold,  and  the 
hunger,  and  the  grief,  and  the  loneliness,  and  the  fear 
of  worse  to  come,  I  get  that  low  in  my  mind  and  that 
wild,  as  I  think  some  night  I  shall  go  and  jump  off  o' 
London  bridge,  that  I  do!" 

"Whisht!  lass,  whisht!  You  mustn't  talk  that  way. 
Come  home  along  o'  me,  and  have  something  hot  to 
drink  to  put  the  life  inter  yer." 

And,  in  the  evil  hour,  the  girl  fatally  consented  to  in 
vade  the  forbidden  ground  of  Madge's  home. 

It  was  bitter  cold  December  weather,  and,  though  still 
early  in  the  evening,  it  was  quite  dark.  There  was 


144  THE  LOST  HEIR 

very  few  street  lamps  in  that  squalid  neighborhood.  But 
there  was  one  at  the  corner  of  Ship  alley,  where  they 
turned  into  Junk  lane.  As  Tony  and  Fanny  came  un 
der  this  light,  in  turning  the  corner,  a  man  passed  them 
coming  out  of  the  lane. 

"That  was  Jerry  Juniper.  He  has  seen  us!"  said 
Fanny,  in  a  terrified  whisper. 

"Oh,  no  he  didn't  lass!  And,  what  if  he  did?  Is 
there  any  law  ag'in  my  taking  a  poor  frozen  girl  inter 
our  room  to  give  her  a  warm  and  a  drink?" 

"No;  but  he'll  tell  Madge,  and  she'll  make  harm  of 
it" 

"Not  he!  He  ain't  no  michief-maker,  an't  Jerry. 
He's  a  good  fellow !" 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  house. 

"Now,  let  us  go  in  separate,  Tony.  You  go  first  I'll 
step  down  in  the  pawnbroker's  and  see  if  I  can  get  old 
Moses  to  give  me  something  on  my  bonnet.  I  know  he 
won't;  but  it  will  be  an  excuse,  you  see.  And,  then 
after  that  I  can  go  upstairs  promiscuous  like,  and 
when  there's  no  one  in  the  passage  I  can  step  into  your 
room  and  get  warm,"  said  Fanny. 

"All  right,  my  lass!  But  you  needn't  be  so  feared. 
Yer  an't  a  doin'  no  harm." 

"No ;  but  they'd  all  make  harm  of  it,  and  tell  Madge, 
and  she'd  tear  my  eyes  out!"  said  Fanny,  as  she  drop 
ped  behind  into  the  shadows,  and  let  Tony  enter  the 
house  alone. 

He  went  up  to  his  own  room,  where  there  was  a  good 
coal  fire  burning.  But  the  room  was  not  unoccupied. 
Sitting  upon  the  old  rug,  before  the  fire  were  the  two 
children,  blue-eyed  little  Benny  and  golden-haired 
Suzy. 

Benny  was  cracking  nuts  and  picking  out  the  kernels 
for  Suzy,  who  was  feasting  on  them  with  much  relish. 

Both  the  children  got  up  from  the  rugs  as  soon  as 
they  saw  Tony. 

"I'm  off  the  boards  to-night,  Mr.  Brice,"  said  the  lit 
tle  actress.  "I'm  off  the  boards  to-night,  because 
they're  playing  'Hamlet,'  and  there  are  no  children  in 
'Hamlet.'  But  o'  Monday  they're  a-going  to  play  'Rich- 


THE  LOST  HEIK  145 

ard,'  and  I'm  a-going  on  again  as  Little  Dookeryoke." 
(Duke  of  York.) 

"Are  you  so?  How  much  money  you  must  make! 
You'll  make  your  fortin  one  o'  these  days.  What  da 
they  give  you  now?"  inquired  Tony,  much  amused. 

"Ten  shillin'  every  time  I  play,"  proudly  replied  the 
child. 

"My  eyes!  that  much  for  playing?  I  wish  I  could 
only  get  half  of  that  for  working!"  laughed  Tony. 

"You  didn't  mind  my  fetching  o'  Suzy  in  here  to  have 
a  party  by  ourselves,  did  you,  Tony?  You  see,  as  Suzy 
told  you,  she's  off  to-night,  and  so  I  cribbed  a  handful 
of  filberts  from  the  stand  there  as  I  cut  round  the  cor 
ner  o'  Low  street,  as  you  comes  into  Ship  alley.  And 
I  brings  'em  here  to  make  a  little  party  for  Suzy,  seeing 
as  she's  off  to-night.  You  don't  mind,  do  you,  Tony?" 

"No,  my  little  man,  I  don't  mind!  Bless  you!  I'm  a- 
going  to  bring  my  own  gal  here  presently  to  have  a 
party  with  her.  I  don't  mind,  but  Madge  will!  You 
bet!" 

"Oh,  will  she?"  inquired  the  child,  in  alarm. 

"Ah!"  breathed  Tony,  as  if  he  meant  to  express,  the 
less  said  the  soonest  mended  on  that  subject. 

"You  know,"  said  the  child,  apologetically.  "Suzy's 
mammy  have  gone  along  o'  my  granny  and  mammy  to 
Pat  Doolan's  wake,  and  so  Suzy's  being  off  to-night, 
and  I  having  of  the  nuts,  I  thought " 

"As  how  you  might  have  a  little  lark  here  all  by  yer 
two  selves,  and  no  harm  done?  All  right!  Madge 
needn't  know  nothink  about  it,  and  then  she  can't  make 
no  fuss,  can  she?" 

"No!"  laughed  the  child,  delighted  at  an  imaginary 
victory. 

"And  so,  if  you  don't  tell,  I  won't,  and  she'll  never 
know.  And,  Suzy,  listen  here!  Don't  you  tell  Madge 
about  our  little  party  here  this  evening,  nor  who  you 
saw,  nor  nothink  about  it,  you  hear?"  said  Tony,  turn 
ing  to  the  little  girl. 

"No!  I  never  tell  on  nobody!  I  could  tell  heaps  and 
heaps  if  I'd  a  mind  to!  But  I'd  die  fust  before  I'd  be 


146  THE  LOST  HEIR 

so  mean  as  to  tell !"  answered  the  little  creature,  indig 
nant  that  her  fidelity  should  be  questioned. 

"All  right!  You  shall  have  some  weak  rum  punch 
for  that,"  said  Tony.  And  he  put  some  water  in  the 
kettle  and  set  it  over  the  fire  to  boil. 

And  so  the  children  received  a  lesson  in  deception 
and  promise  of  reward. 

"You  mustn't  let  the  women  know  everything,  you 
know,  my  lad,"  said  Tony. 

"No,"  replied  Benny. 

"  'Cause  women  is  fools  anyhow,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Benny. 

"All  on  'em." 

"Not  Suzy,"  objected  the  child,  with  a  sudden  reac 
tion  of  loyalty  to  his  little  friend. 

"Oh,  Suzy's  not  a  woman,  you  know!" 

"No;  so  she  isn't.  She's  a  infant  prodigal,"  replied 
little  Benny,  with  some  confusion  of  ideas  between  the 
infant  prodigy  and  the  prodigal  son. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  cautious  rap  at  the  door. 

"Come  in !"  said  Tony. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Fanny  Flowers  entered  the 
room.  On  seeing  the  children  she  would  have  retreated, 
Imt  Tony  exclaimed: 

"It's  all  right,  my  lass!  All  friends  here,  ain't  we, 
kids?  I  found  'em  here,  and  couldn't  turn  'em  out. 
But  they're  true  as  steel,  and  it's  all  right,  I  tell  yer. 
So  come  in." 

Perhaps  Fanny  Flowers  would  not  have  ventured  in, 
but  there  was  neither  fire  nor  food  in  her  own  wretched 
abode.  Her  feet  were  wet;  she  was  cold  and  hungry 
and  sorrowful  and  she  was  longing  for  something  to 
eat  and  drink,  and  for  some  one  to  comfort  her. 

"Don't  be  feared,  Fanny !  I  won't  tell !"  said  Benny, 
coming  up  on  one  side  of  her. 

"No  more  will  I,"  added  Suzy. 

Fanny  sat  down  by  the  fire  and  put  her  wet  feet  on 
the  edge  of  the  old  wire  fender  and  shuddered,  partly 
with  cold  and  partly  with  fear ;  or  was  it  with  presenti 
ment  of  evil? 


THE  LOST  HEIR  147 

Tony  made  the  punch  very  strong  and  very  hot,  and 
gave  one  glass  to  Fanny  and  took  one  himself. 

Then  he  weakened  some  of  it  with  hot  water  and 
sweetened  with  much  sugar  and  gave  it  the  children, 
who,  after  drinking  it,  began  to  nod,  and  finally  went 
to  sleep  on  the  floor. 

"Look  a  here!  I  must  get  out  o'  this  before  Madge 
comes  home,"  said  Fanny,  as  she  drained  the  glass. 

"Not  till  you've  had  another  un,  lass !  Lor'  bless  yer ! 
Why,  it's  only  eight  o'clock  yet,  and  she  won't  be  home 
afore  one  or  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  You've  got 
hours  afore  you  yet,"  said  Tony,  filling  her  glass  from 
the  jug  of  punch  that  he  kept  hot  on  the  hob. 

"I'm  afeared  to  drink  any  more,  Tony.  And  you 
oughtn't  to.  That's  a  fact.  The  more  one  drinks  the 
more  one  wants,  and  the  more  one  loses  of  one's  head. 
No ;  I'd  better  not  take  any  more.  But  I  tell  you  what, 
Tony;  save  some  in  the  bottom  of  the  jug  for  poor 
Granny;  she's  asleep  now;  but  when  I  go  in,  I  will 
wake  her  up  and  give  it  to  her.  It  will  warm  her,  same 
as  it  does  me." 

"All  right.  I'll  save  some  for  the  old  girl  on  condi 
tion  that  you'll  take  another  un  yerself;  and  on  no 
other  conditions  whatsomever." 

Thus  persuaded,  Fanny  began  to  sip  the  punch  with 
which  Tony  had  filled  her  glass,  and  the  punch  began  to 
get  in  her  head,  and  to  make  her  feel  sentimental,  and, 
strangely  enough,  penitent. 

"Tony,"  she  said,  "I've  often  been  thinking  as  it  was 
wrong  for  me  to  be  running  after  you,  and  taking  you 
off  to  go  back'ards  and  for'ards  with  me  to  the  Thes 
pian,  unbeknownst  to  Madge ;  and  worse  still,  for  me  to 
be  a  spending  of  your  wages,  and  letting  of  you  spend 
'em  on  me  for  treats,  when  I  knowed  Madge  was  a 
wanting  of  bread!" 

"All  right,  lass !  all  right,"  remarked  Tony,  who  was 
very  far  gone  in  drink,  and  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
of  what  the  girl  was  talking  about. 

"And  I  did  make  up  my  mind  as  I  never  would  do  so 
no  more.  But  only  to-night,  Tony,  I  was  so  cold  and 
so  hungry,  for  I  gave  granny  the  last  of  the  bread  for 


148  THE  LOST  HEIK 

her  supper;  and  I  felt  so  lonesome  and  comfortless 
when  I  met  you,  Tony,  and  you  so  much  like  a  good  old 
brother  to  me,  Tony,  that  I  couldn't  help  of  it." 

"All  right,  old  fellow !  Old— old  fellow !"  blundered 
Mr.  Brice. 

"But,  Tony,  this  must  be  the  very  last  time.  You 
must  never  ask  me  to  come  and  take  a  drink  with  you 
again — never.  Folks  think  worse  o'  me  nor  I  am,  as 
you  know — worse  o'  me  nor  I  ever  could  be!  I  couldn't 
be  like  Rose,  Tony,  and  you  know  I  couldn't.  But  these 
treats  an't  right,  and  I  mustn't  have  no  more  of  'em — 
no,  not  even  if  I  famish  and  freeze  to  death." 

"Jus — jus  so,  old  fellow.  Give  us  yer  hand,"  stam 
mered  Tony,  all  unconscious  of  what  was  meant,  and 
trying  to  rise  to  his  feet.  But  he  fell  back  again  into 
his  seat,  quite  stupid  and  helpless. 

At  that  moment,  in  the  dead  stillness  of  the  house,  a 
stealthy  step  was  heard  to  approach  the  room,  and  a 
stealthy  hand  to  fumble  around  in  the  darkness  over  the 
door,  as  if  in  search  of  the  handle  of  the  lock. 

"That's  Madge!  She'll  kill  me!"  breathlessly  ex 
claimed  the  girl,  and  in  the  frenzy  of  her  terror  she 
flew  to  the  door  and  slipped  the  bolt,  thus  putting  a  bar 
rier  between  her  and  the  fury  she  feared  so  much.  Of 
course  this  was  the  worst  thing  she  could  possibly  have 
done,  and  she  seemed  in  a  moment  to  realize  that  it  was 
so.  She  turned  and  threw  her  eyes  wildly  around  the 
room,  as  if  in  search  of  a  way  of  escape,  up  the  chim 
ney,  out  of  the  window — anywhere ! 

We  must  now  go  back  a  little,  to  see  how  Madge  hap 
pened  to  come  home  so  suddenly. 

Some  time  before  this,  Madge  had  found  out  all  about 
what  she  called  "the  goings  on  of  Tony  and  Fanny" — 
the  walks  to  and  from  the  Thespian,  the  cakes  and  the 
gin  treats,  and  so  on.  And  she  hated  the  girl  with 
the  hate  of  jealousy,  and  assailed  her  whenever  and 
wherever  she  found  her,  and  she  talked  about  her  to  her 
fellow-lodgers,  and  set  them  all  against  her.  And  she 
watched  her  opportunity  of  getting  a  still  stronger  case 
against  her  detested  rival. 

But  for  a  long  time  she  had  watched  in  vain. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  149 

Fanny  Flowers,  shocked  by  the  flight  of  her  sister 
and  the  death  of  her  grandfather,  was  stunned  into 
something  like  steadiness.  Then  the  loss  of  her  engage 
ment  at  the  theatre  took  a  great  deal  of  temptation  out 
of  her  way.  Finally  her  terror  of  Madge  completed  the 
reformation — of  her  manners,  if  not  of  her  morals.  So 
Madge  found  no  cause  against  her,  or  rather  no  new- 
cause,  until  this  bitter  winter  night,  when  Fanny  met 
Tony  in  the  street,  and  being  cold,  hungry,  friendless 
and  comfortless,  suffered  herself  to  be  tempted  to  eat, 
drink  and  be  warmed  by  Tony's  fire,  in  Madge's  absence. 

Meanwhile  Madge  was  at  Pat  Doolan's  wake,  drink 
ing  more  whiskey  in  honor  of  the  dead  man  than  was 
good  for  her. 

Madge  was  now  the  same  tall,  dark,  gaunt  woman, 
with  the  same  strong  features,  great  fierce  black  eyes, 
and  long,  wild  black  hair  that  we  knew  first  six  years 
ago.  She  had  the  same  deep  hectic  spots  in  her  dark, 
hollow  cheeks,  the  same  wild  fierce  light  in  her  black 
eyes,  and  the  same  chronic  cough,  of  which  she  never 
seemed  to  get  better  or  worse. 

She  was  at  the  wake,  sitting  in  a  closely  crowded, 
stifling  room,  and  holding  a  tin  cup  of  very  bad  whisky 
in  her  hands,  when  Jerry  Juniper,  who  had  come  in 
some  half  hour  before,  found  himself  near  her,  and  be 
ing,  like  all  the  others,  much  the  worse  for  drink,  jogged 
her  elbow  so  that  she  spilled  her  whisky,  and  then  he 
said: 

"  'When  the  cat's  away,  the  mice  will  play.' " 
"What  does  the  fool  mean?"  inquired  Madge,  resent 
fully. 

"Lady  Bug!  Lady  Bug!  fly  away  home!  Your 
house  is  on  fire !  Your  children '  " 

"Look  here,  Jerry  Juniper;  if  as  how  you're  intoxi 
cated,  just  keep  away  from  me,  for  I  hate  sich !" 

"Look  here,  Mrs.  Brice,  if  you  go  away  home  right 
now,  when  you  an't  looked  for,  you'll  happen  to  find 
something  you  don't  look  for." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  nothing!     I  met  Tony  a  taking  of  Fanny  Flow- 


150  THE  LOST  HEIR 

ers  home  long  of  him,  to  take  something  hot,  he  said, 
and  have  a  good  time !" 

Jerry  Juniper,  when  he  saw  the  face  of  Madge,  was 
frightened  at  what  he  had  done.  She  turned  ashy  pale, 
except  the  two  crimson  spots  on  her  hollow  cheeks,  that 
burned  in  their  deep  holes  like  baleful  smouldering 
fires.  Her  eyes  were  fearful  to  look  upon.  If  honest 
Jerry  had  ever  heard  of  the  Medusa's  head,  he  would 
have  thought  of  it  now. 

Madge  dropped  the  cup  from  her  hands,  and  without 
a  word,  left  the  house. 

With  her  brain  all  on  fire,  she  hurried  breathless 
down  Low  street,  whirled  around  the  corner  into  Ship 
alley,  and  down  that  and  around  the  next  corner  into 
Junk  lane,  and  so  into  her  own  miserable  home.  There 
she  suddenly  stopped  and  took  breath. 

"I  must  be  quietlike  now,"  she  said,  to  herself.  "I 
mustn't  let  'em  hear  me ;  I  want  to  surprise  'em.  And 

then ! "     She  worked  her  fingers  in  and  out  like  the 

claws   of   a   tigress — "And   then — then — then — then — 
oh!" 

She  went  cautiously  upstairs,  and  along  the  passages 
until  she  reached  the  third  floor,  where  her  own  room 
was  situated.  The  house  was  dark,  silent  and  deserted. 
At  this  hour  nearly  all  the  inmates  who  were  not  ab 
sent  were  in  bed. 

She  crept  along  the  side  of  the  passage,  feeling  her 
way  for  the  door  until  she  had  found  it;  then,  in  the 
same  way,  she  felt  over  the  door  for  the  handle  of  the 
lock;  but,  just  as  she  got  hold  of  the  handle,  she  felt 
the  bolt  on  the  inner  side  shoved  into  its  place,  and  she 
knew  that  she  was  bolted  out  of  her  own  room. 

This  raised  her  rage  to  frenzy,  and  give  her  the 
strength  of  frenzy. 

She  knew  the  bolt  was  frail.  She  drew  back  for  a 
run,  and  hurled  herself  against  the  door  with  all  her 
force  and  burst  it  open! 

There  was  a  faint  scream  from  Fanny,  who  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  paralyzed  with  terror. 

With  the  spring  of  a  tigress,  Madge,  her  black  hair 
flying,  her  hollow  cheeks  burning,  her  fierce  eyes  blaz- 


THE  LOST  HEIK  151 

ing,  hurled  herself  upon  the  girl,  threw  her  down  on 
the  ground,  and  with  her  knees  upon  her  chest,  and  her 
long  talonlike  fingers  clasped  around  her  throat, 
pressed  with  all  her  maniac  strength,  keeping  her  eves 
fixed  upon  the  darkening  face  and  starting  eyes  of  the 
feebly-struggling  victim,  and  hissing  between  her 
clinched  teeth: 

"Die — die — die!  I'll  never  leave  go  my  hold  till 
you're  dead — dead — dead !" 

Except  for  these  low  tones  of  baleful  hatred,  the 
struggle  was  as  silent  as  the  grave.  It  did  not  wake 
the  sleeping  children.  It  did  not  rouse  the  drunken 
man.  It  continued  in  deadly  silence  until  the  sound  of 
footsteps  was  heard  approaching  the  room,  and  Jerry 
Juniper,  who,  alarmed  at  what  might  be  the  conse 
quences  of  his  words  to  Madge,  had  followed  her  to  the 
house,  now  entered. 

Seeing  the  position  of  affairs,  he  ran  to  Madge,  seized 
her,  and  tore  her  away  from  her  victim,  calling  loudly, 
in  the  mean  time,  to  Tony  for  help.  But  Tony  was  be 
yond  helping  any  one. 

Madge,  however,  now  exhausted  with  the  violence  of 
her  emotions  and  exertions,  made  no  resistance,  but  suf 
fered  herself  to  be  torn  away  from  her  victim. 

Jerry  Juniper  immediately  stooped  to  raise  the  fallen 
girl.  He  was  too  late.  She  was  quite  dead. 

"And  I  did  it  with  these  hands,"  said  Madge,  holding 
up  her  terrible  talonlike  fingers  in  triumph. 

It  was  not  long  before  several  policemen,  attracted  by 
the  excitement,  arrived  on  the  scene.  Poor  Madge  was 
promptly  handcuffed  and  carried  off  in  custody. 

At  ten  o'clock  a  coroner's  inquest  was  held  over  the 
body  of  Fanny  Flowers. 

Jerry  Juniper  and  the  policemen  were  the  principal 
witnesses.  The  case  was  so  very  clear  that,  after  a 
brief  investigation,  the  jury  made  up  their  verdict  that 
"the  deceased  had  come  to  her  death  by  strangulation  at 
the  hands  of  Magdalene  Brice." 

And  the  same  morning  the  accused  was  duly  com 
mitted  to  Newgate  to  wait  her  trial. 

Tony  Brice  was  heart-stricken  with  remorse,  grief 


152  THE  LOST  HEIR 

and  fear.  He  had  been  discharged  from  custody  by  the 
same  magistrate  who  had  committed  Madge  to  jail.  And 
he  had  followed  her  when  she  was  taken  to  Newgate, 
and  had  parted  with  her  there,  he  weeping,  she  defiant. 

After  that  he  wandered  about  the  streets  in  a  deliri 
ous  manner,  drinking  rum  as  long  as  his  money  lasted ; 
but  failing  in  his  efforts  to  drown  his  trouble  in  drunk 
enness.  His  mental  excitement  was  so  great  that  the 
liquor  for  once  failed  of  its  usual  effect. 

Then  he  wandered  home — home  no  longer  for  him. 
He  wished  to  lie  down  in  his  own  room  and  rest — for 
ever,  if  he  might.  He  opened  the  door,  and  saw  the 
dead  body  of  poor  Fanny  laid  out  neatly  upon  his  bed, 
and  two  women  watching  by  it. 

He  stopped  where  he  stood  and  gazed  at  it. 

"Mr.  Brice,"  said  Mrs.  Juniper,  who  was  one  of  the 
watchers,  "we  had  to  lay  her  out  here,  because  old  Mrs. 
Flowers'  room  wasn't  fitting.  But  if  you  object  to  it, 
in  course  we  must  move  her  there,  fitting  or  no  fitting." 

"I  don't  object  to  nothink !"  answered  the  miserable 
man ;  "but  I  wish  as  some  on  you  would  make  up  a  bun 
dle  o'  poor  Madge's  clothes  and  give  'em  to  me  to  carry 
to  her  this  arternoon  afore  the  prisin  is  shet  ag'in 
friends." 

Mary  Kempton,  who  was  the  other  watcher,  promised 
to  do  this. 

Then  Tony  cast  his  eyes  around  the  room  in  search 
of  something  he  could  pawn  for  money  to  buy  more 
rum,  and  catching  sight  of  Madge's  Sunday  bonnet,  he 
snatched  it  from  its  hook,  muttering,  "She'll  never  need 
this  no  more,  anyhow,"  he  left  the  room. 

That  night  he  succeeded  in  getting  himself  again  into 
the  watchhouse.  The  next  morning  he  was  sent  to 
prison  for  sixty  days. 

Poor  Fanny  Flowers,  after  having  been  murdered  by 
a  jealous  rival,  was  buried  by  the  parish.  And  such 
was  the  end  of  one  of  these  poor,  pretty  silly  sisters. 
Of  the  other  we  shall  hear  presently. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  153 

CHAPTER  XX. 

MADGE    IN    NEWGATE. 

The  women  of  the  house  carried  Madge  some  clothes. 
They  also  went  frequently  to  see  her  in  her  prison,  but 
the}7  always  found  her  so  wild  and  mad  and  intractable 
that  these  visits  were  very  unsatisfactory. 

Rachel  Wood  and  Mary  Kempton  got  leave,  through 
the  prison  chaplain,  to  visit  her  daily  in  her  cell.  And 
they  tried  hard  to  bring  her  into  a  more  Christian 
frame  of  mind ;  but  they  tried  in  vain. 

Old  Ruth  almost  lived  under  the  shadow  of  the  old 
prison  walls. 

She  had  taken  possession  of  Tony  Brice's  vacant 
room ;  and  she  and  Benny  slept  there  at  night.  But  in 
the  morning,  as  soon  as  she  had  cooked  and  they  had 
eaten  their  bit  of  breakfast,  she  would  lock  up  the  room 
and  go  out  with  Benny  and  walk  to  Newgate,  and  seat 
herself  on  the  flagstones  under  the  prison  walls,  and 
wait  there  until  the  hour  came  when  she  could  be  admit 
ted  into  the  prison  yard  with  other  friends  of  the  pris 
oners.  .While  waiting  she  would  make  capital  of  her 
troubles,  whenever  she  dared,  by  appealing  to  the  pass 
ers-by,  in  behalf  of  "this  poor,  pretty  boy,  my  lady, 
whose  mother  is  in  jail  here,  for  strangling  of  a  bad 
girl,  as  took  away  his  father  from  her,  my  lady — which 
how  could  she  help  it?  I  puts  it  to  you,  my  lady!  But 
look  at  him !"  she  would  add,  pointing  to  the  fair  child, 
whose  pure,  sweet,  blue  eyes  were  a  stronger  appeal 
than  the  strongest  prayer  of  Ruth. 

She  made  a  good  living  out  of  this,  picking  up  from 
half  a  crown  to  five  shillings  a  day. 

Meanwhile,  Rachel  Wood  was  studying  how  she 
could  possibly  help  the  wretched  woman,  Madge,  in  this 
time  of  her  terrible  need. 

She  had  heard  it  rumored  that  Madge  would  speedily 
be  brought  to  trial.  Also  that  she  was  not  able  to  en 
gage  counsel,  and  so  would  have  none  to  defend  her  but 
such  as  the  court  should  please  to  appoint,  and  who 


154  THE  LOST  HEIR 

would  probably  be  some  briefless  and  incompetent 
young  lawyer,  whose  service  would  be  a  mere  form,  and 
who  would  do  her  case  no  good. 

Rachel  Wood  believed  Madge  to  have  been  insane  and 
irresponsible  when  she  did  that  dreadful  deed.  And 
she  further  believed  that  a  learned  and  skillful  lawyer 
would  be  able  to  make  the  jury  think  so,  and  thus  save 
the  wretched  woman's  life,  though  perhaps  only  at  the 
expense  of  her  perpetual  imprisonment  as  a  criminal 
lunatic. 

After  thinking  over  the  matter  for  a  few  days,  Rachel 
Wood  determined  to  write  and  tell  her  only  "guide, 
philosopher  and  friend,"  Mrs.  Melliss,  all  about  it,  and 
then  ask  her  advice. 

"It  will  be  just  the  same  as  hinting  for  her  to  fee  a 
lawyer  to  defend  Madge;  but  I  cannot  help  it;  I  must 
do  it.  I  cannot  let  that  poor,  wretched  woman  I  have 
known  so  long  come  to  this  dreadful  end,  if  I  can  pre 
vent  it." 

So  she  wrote  a  full  account  of  the  whole  affair  to 
Mrs.  Melliss,  who  was  still  staying  at  Kemptown, 
Brighton. 

Two  days  after  the  letter  was  answered  by  Mrs.  Mel 
liss  in  person.  She  came  in  a  close  cab  to  Junk  lane, 
and,  leaving  it  waiting,  went  upstairs  and  rapped  at 
Rachel  Wood's  door.  To  the  girl's  mild  invitation  to 
come  in,  she  entered. 

Rachel  was  sitting  at  her  work-table  making  a  shirt, 
as  usual. 

On  seeing  her  benefactress,  she  started  up  with  sur 
prise  and  pleasure,  and  went  to  meet  her. 

"I  got  your  letter,  Rachel,"  said  the  lady,  as  soon  as 
they  had  shaken  hands  and  were  seated  together.  "I 
got  it  on  yesterday  morning.  And,  as  I  had  already 
arranged  to  come  up  to  London  for  a  few  days  on 
business,  I  thought  I  would  come  here  and  answer  it 
in  person." 

"Oh,  how  good  you  are  to  come!  and  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you !  This  is  a  dreadful,  dreadful  misfortune, 
Mrs.  Melliss!  I  ought  not  to  have  troubled  you  with 
it!  But,  indeed,  I  could  not  help  it!  You  were  my 


THE  LOST  HEIR  155 

last  hope  for  that  poor  creature,"  said  Rachel,  with 
much  emotion. 

"I  thank  you  very  much  for  telling  me.  Happy  peo 
ple  should  do  all  they  can  for  the  unhappy.  I  pity 
criminals  just  as  much  as  I  do  any  other  class  of  mis 
erable  people.  My  dear  husband  says  it  is  a  very  great 
weakness;  but  I  cannot  help  it.  The  wretched  woman 
shall  have  an  advocate,  Rachel,  and  a  powerful  one, 
too!"  said  Mrs.  Melliss. 

"Oh,  thank  you!  thank  you!"  said  Rachel,  seizing  and 
kissing  the  lady's  hand. 

"The  counsel  I  speak  of  is  my  stepson,  Mr.  Percy 
Melliss,  of  the  Temple.  He  is  a  most  learned  and 
eloquent  barrister.  But  he  is  young  yet,  and  has  but 
few  briefs.  He  is  also  a  large-hearted,  clear-visioned 
man,  full  of  philanthropy  and  benevolence.  I  feel  sure 
that  he  will  take  up  the  case  with  as  much  zeal,  and 
defend  it  with  as  much  power,  as  if  he  were  to  receive 
a  thousand  pounds  for  his  services." 

"Heaven  bless  him,  and  you !"  fervently  breathed  the 
seamstress. 

"I  have  a  close  cab  waiting  at  the  door,  and  I  will 
take  you  to  see  him  at  his  chambers  this  morning.  But 
before  that,  I  wish  you  to  take  me  to  Newgate,  to 
see  that  unhappy  woman." 

"Oh,  dear  Mrs.  Melliss !  I'm  afraid  that  the  sight  of 
her  on  her  prison  bed  will  be  too  much  for  your 
nerves." 

"My  nerves!  I  haven't  got  any;  I  never  had  any.  I 
should  be  ashamed  to  have  them  in  such  a  case  as  this, 
Rachel.  I  mean  to  go  and  see  that  woman  in  prison. 
I  have  seen  almost  every  form  of  human  misery  except 
that  of  prison  life.  I  mean  to  see  that  to-day.  So  put 
on  your  shawl  and  bonnet,  dear  girl,  and  let  us  go." 

Rachel  said  no  more  in  opposition  to  the  plan,  but 
made  herself  ready  and  attended  the  lady  to  the  cab. 

They  drove  rapidly  to  Newgate. 

It  was  really  the  hour  for  Rachel's  usual  visit  to  the 
prisoner,  and  the  lady  and  herself  were  at  once  ad 
mitted  to  the  interior  of  the  prison,  and  conducted  to 
tie  cell. 


156  THE  LOST  HEIR 

And  now,  my  reader,  the  scene  I  am  about  to  de 
scribe  is  not  an  imaginary,  but  a  real  one. 

They  entered  a  small  stone  cell,  where,  on  a  very 
narrow  bed,  lay  the  long,  gaunt  form  of  Madge  Brice. 
Her  long,  black  hair  was  wandering  over  the  pillow 
and  coverlet  in  snaky  locks.  Her  fierce  black  eyes, 
deep  sunken  in  their  sockets,  were  gleaming  like  sparks 
of  fire.  Her  cheeks  were  sunken  into  two  deep  hol 
lows,  where  two  dark  crimson  spots  burned  like  coals. 
Her  long,  dark,  bony  arms,  bare  nearly  to  the  shoul 
ders,  were  lifted  up  before  her  face,  while  she  opened 
and  shut  her  dark,  bony  hands,  gazing  at  them  wist 
fully. 

"How  are  vou,  Madge,  dear?"  inquired  Rachel, 
kindly. 

"Same,"  answered  the  woman,  curtly,  without  re 
moving  her  gaze  from  the  working  fingers. 

"Madge,  dear,  I  have  brought  a  lady  here  to  see  you, 
and  do  you  good  if  she  can.  And  she  is  going  to  get 
a  lawyer  for  you,  Madge,  a  first-rate  lawyer,  to  defend 
you  on  your  trial.  Look  around  at  the  lady,  Madge. 
She  is  Mrs.  Melliss." 

Thus  persuaded,  Madge  turned  her  gaunt,  dark  face 
and  fiery  eyes  upon  the  visitor  with  a  look  that  went 
to  the  lady's  heart. 

"What  do  she  care  for  the  likes  of  a  poor  wretch 
sich  as  me?"  muttered  Madge. 

"But  I  do  care  a  great  deal  for  you,  my  poor  woman. 
I  am  grieved  to  see  you  in  this  situation,"  murmured 
Angela,  in  that  low,  sweet,  loving  tone  that  ever 
touched  the  sympathies  of  all  who  heard  it.  And  she 
laid  her  cool  hand  on  the  woman's  dark,  corrugated 
brow. 

Something  in  the  look,  the  tone  and  the  touch  reached 
and  melted  the  hardness  of  that  woman's  heart.  She 
burst  into  a  passion  of  wild  sobs  and  tears,  the  first 
that  she  had  shed  since  her  arrest;  and  amid  it  all  she 
began,  in  an  eager,  vehement,  incoherent  manner,  to 
pour  out  the  story  of  her  wrongs  and  crimes. 

"I  could  not  help  it,  my  lady!  She  took  my  own 
dear  man  away  from  me !  My  Tony  was  as  good  a  man 


THE  LOST  HEIK  157 

as  ever  broke  bread  till  that  gal  come  over  him  and 
witched  him.  She  was  young  and  pretty  and  gay,  my 
lady ;  and  I  were  getting  old  and  sickly  and  mopy.  And 
so  she  heaved  a  spell  over  my  Tony,  and  took  his  love 
away  from  me.  And  that  night!  that  night!  while  I 
was  I  was  at  a  neighbor's  wake,  he  took  his  sweetheart 
into  my  room,  my  lady,  into  mine!  And  a  friend  o' 
mine  come  and  told  me.  And  I  flew  back  home  like  a 
flame  of  fire.  And  they  locked  the  door  of  the  room 
ag'in  me,  to  keep  me  out — out  of  my  own  room,  and 
away  from  my  own  husband !  Then  I  felt  as  strong  as 
ten  men.  I  throwed  myself  ag'in  the  door,  and  busted 
of  it  open.  And  I  throwed  myself  upon  her  and 
throwed  her  down  like  a  felled  ox.  And  I  got  my  knees 
on  her  breast  and  my  fingers  around  her  throat, 
and " 

''Oh,  hush !  hush !  poor  woman,  hush !  This  is  too, 
too  horrible!"  murmured  Angela,  shuddering  and  cov 
ering  her  face;  but  Madge  could  not  stop  herself. 

"I  strangled  her  with  these  hands,  my  lady!  I  used 
no  knife  nor  club,  nor  pisen.  nor  pistil;  I  did  it  with 
these  hands!"  she  wildly  cried,  rearing  up  her  long, 
bony  arms,  and  opening  and  shutting  her  dark,  horny 
fingers. 

"Oh,  stop!  stop!  You  must  not  talk  of  this  now. 
You  are  sorry  for  doing  it  now,  you  know." 

"Sorry! — I  would  do  it  again!  I  know  they'll  hang 
me  for  it  out  here  in  front  of  Newgate,  in  sight  of  all 
the  people;  but  I  don't  care.  I'd  do  it  again,  if  I  was 
sure  they'd  hang  me  again!" 

"Oh,  horrible!  horrible!  She  is  mad  indeed!"  mut 
tered  Mrs.  Melliss,  almost  regretting  that  she  had  made 
this  visit. 

But  she  spoke  a  few  kind,  soothing  words  to  the 
woman,  and  arose  to  leave  the  cell. 

"You'll  come  and  see  me  again,  my  lady?  Your  face 
is  the  sweetest  face  but  one  as  ever  smiled  on  me.  You'll 
not  keep  away  from  the  poor  creature  who  can't  get 
out  of  this,  and  who  can't  repent  of  what  she's  done, 
and  who  must  so  soon  die  on  the  gallows,  and  go  to 
burning " 


158  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Hush !  you  must  not  say  such  dreadful  words !  We 
are  all  going  to  try  to  save  you,  and  we  hope  to  suc 
ceed.  Yes,  I  will  come  again.  I  will  come  every  day 
while  I  stay  in  town.  To-morrow  I  will  bring  my  son 
to  see  you,  and  he  will  be  your  counsel,"  said  Angela. 

"Your  son,  my  lady?  my  young,  pretty  little  lady, 
your  son?" 

"My  stepson,"  explained  Angela. 

"Oh!  that  indeed!  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him,  my 
lady.  I  thank  you." 

"And  he  will  be  glad  to  do  you  good,  I  feel  sure. 
Now  good-by,"  said  Mrs.  Melliss,  pressing  the  woman's 
hand  and  turning  to  leave  the  cell. 

Rachel  also  took  leave  of  Madge,  and  followed  Mrs. 
Melliss.  A  turnkey  showed  them  out. 

They  were  soon  in  the  cab  again,  and  on  their  way 
to  the  Temple.  They  drove  on  in  silence.  Mrs.  Melliss 
was  too  deeply  affected  by  all  that  she  had  seen  to  talk 
about  it,  and  Rachel  Wood  forebore  to  speak. 

When  they  reached  the  chambers  occupied  by  Mr. 
Percy  Melliss,  barrister-at-law,  Mrs.  Melliss  sent  up 
her  name,  and  was  at  once  admitted  to  the  presence  of 
her  stepson. 

He  wes  a  very  handsome  young  man,  tall  and  very 
dark  like  his  father,  slight  and  graceful,  and  gifted 
with  a  pair  of  dark,  earnest,  eloquent  eyes  and  a  deep, 
full,  clear  voice,  both  powerful  allies  in  his  profession. 

He  arose  and  embraced  his  youthful  stepmother,  who 
then  presented  her  companion,  and  finally  sat  down 
and  opened  her  case. 

"I  have  heard  and  read  of  that  affair — a  very  singu 
lar  one,  indeed.  And  you  really  think  the  woman  mad?" 
inqured  the  young  barrister. 

"I  really  do." 

"And  she  has  no  counsel,  you  say?" 

"None.     She  is  not  able  to  retain  any." 

"But,  of  course,  you  know  the  court  will  assign  he* 
counsel." 

"Yes,  some  stick!" 

"Most  likely.  Well,  I  think  I  shall  have  to  take  this 
case.  I  have  very  little  to  do  now.  Since  you  prom- 


THE  LOST  HEIR  159 

ised  to  take  me,  I  will  go  with  you  to  see  this  woman. 
What  hour  shall  we  go?" 

"At  ten.     I  will  call  for  you  here  in  a  cab." 

"Thanks.  That  will  do  quite  well,"  said  the  young 
lawyer. 

And  then  he  escorted  his  youthful  stepmother  and 
her  companion  downstairs  and  put  them  in  their  cab. 

"Where  shall  I  tell  the  man  to  drive  to?"  inquired 
the  young  lawyer,  holding  the  cab  door  in  his  hand 
while  he  waited  for  directions. 

"Oh,  of  course  back  to  Junk  lane." 

"To — I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Percy  Melliss,  who 
had  never  heard  of  the  place  in  his  life — "where  did 
you  say?" 

"Oh,  then,  to  the  Brunswick  Hotel,  Berners  street," 
answered  Mrs.  Melliss,  altering  her  instructions. 

The  young  barrister  repeated  the  directions,  bowed 
and  closed  the  carriage,  and  the  cab  started. 

"Our  house  in  Charles  street  is  shut  up  while  we 
stay  at  Brighton,  and  there  is  no  one  in  care  of  it 
except  a  charwoman  in  the  basement.  So  I  am  at  the 
Brunswick,  in  Berners  street,  with  only  my  maid.  It  is 
a  pleasant,  quiet  house.  And  I  would  like  to  have 
you  stop  and  take  luncheon  with  me  there,  before  you 
return  to  Junk  lane,"  said  Mrs.  Melliss  to  her  com 
panion,  as  they  drove  along. 

Eachel  thanked  her  benefactress,  but  declined  the 
invitation,  pleading  work  waiting  for  her  at  home  that 
must  be  finished  by  a  certain  time. 

So,  when  the  cab  reached  Berners  street,  Mrs.  Melliss 
took  leave  of  Rachel,  paid  the  driver  in  advance,  and 
ordered  him  to  drive  the  young  woman  back  to  Junk 
lane. 

The  next  day,  according  to  arrangement,  Mrs.  Mel 
liss  drove  to  the  Temple  and  took  up  her  stepson,  and 
thence  to  Newgate,  and  introduced  him  to  his  client. 

Madge  told  her  horrible  story  over  again  to  a  very 
attentive  listener,  who  took  notes  of  her  talk. 

But  she  still  harped  upon  two  things. 

First,  that  she  "did  it  with  these  hands,  and  would 
do  it  again." 


160  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Second,  that  "she  knew  they  would  hang  her,  and 
she  didn't  care  if  they  did." 

The  young  advocate  was  very  much  interested  in  his 
strange  client,  and,  after  quite  a  long  interview  with 
her,  he  retired  to  work  up  his  case. 

"She  is  undoubtedly  mad.  We  shall  be  able  to  save 
her  life,  but  not  her  liberty,"  was  the  opinion  he  ex 
pressed  to  his  stepmother,  on  taking  leave  of  that 
lady  at  the  Temple, 

That  day  Mrs.  Melliss,  having  completed  the  shop 
ping  business  that  had  brought  her  to  London,  went 
back  by  the  late  afternoon  train  to  Brighton. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Percy  Melliss  took  an  eminent 
physician  to  Newgate  to  examine  the  mental  condition 
of  his  client. 

And  the  third  day  he  engaged  the  attendance  of  the 
physician  in  charge  of  the  Hanwell  Lunatic  Asylum. 
And  in  due  time  he  received  the  opinions  of  both  these 
gentlemen,  who  found  the  prisoner  suffering  under 
mental  derangement. 

The  young  advocate  worked  hard  at  this  case;  saw 
his  client  almost  every  day,  and  sat  up  nearly  all  night 
every  night,  reading  up  the  subject  and  taking  notes 
upon  it.  For  there  was  very  little  time  to  spare. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

MADGE'S  T*IIAL. 

Madge  Brice  was  speedily  brought  to  trial  at  the  Old 
Bailey,  charged  with  the  willful  murder  of  Frances 
Flowers. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Melliss  came  up  to  town  on  this  occa 
sion,  because  Mrs.  Melliss  felt  very  much  interested  in 
the  fate  of  the  accused,  and  Mr.  Melliss  wished  to  hear 
his  son  plead  in  a  case  where  it  was  supposed  that  he 
would  distinguish  himself. 

Mary  Kempton  was  also  in  court,  and  sat  as  near  to 
the  prisoner  in  the  dock  as  she  was  permitted  to  do. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  161 

Old  Ruth  Drug  was  there,  of  course.  Tony  Brice  was 
not  there,  being  still  in  prison.  Many  of  the  men  and 
women  from  Junk  lane  were  present,  crowding  into  the 
lower  end  of  the  hall. 

I  shall  give  but  a  brief  report  of  this  trial,  for  it 
was  very  short  and  soon  over. 

When  the  prisoner  was  arraigned  at  the  bar,  and 
asked  whether  she  were  guilty  or  not  guilty  of  the 
felony  laid  to  her  charge,  she  answered  vehemently 
before  any  one  could  stop  her  torrent  of  words,  and 
answered  by  harping  upon  her  two  strings: 

"Guilty,  my  lord,  if  you  please  to  call  it  so,  which  I 
don't;  for  I  did  it  with  these  hands,  and  would  do  it 
again.  Which  I  know  you  will  hang  me,  and  I  don't 
care  if  you  do." 

The  prisoner  was  ordered  to  sit  down.  And,  not 
withstanding  her  astounding  confession,  the  trial 
proceeded. 

The  counsel  for  the  crown  opened  the  case  with  a 
few  preliminary  remarks,  and  called  witnesses  to  tes 
tify  to  the  murder.  These  were  the  Junipers,  and  the 
policemen  who  were  first  upon  the  scene  of  the  trag 
edy.  The  fact  that  Madge  Brice  murdered  Fanny 
Flowers  was  clearly  proved.  And  the  queen's  counsel 
expressed  a  hope  that  the  jury  would  do  their  duty 
in  the  premises,  notwithstanding  the  plea  of  insanity 
which  he  understood  the  learned  counsel  for  the  ac 
cused  meant  to  set  up  for  her  acquittal.  The  case  on 
the  part  of  the  crown  was  then  closed. 

Mr.  Percy  Melliss  arose  for  the  defense.  He  could 
not  have  been  more  in  earnest  if  his  client  had  been 
a  duchess,  his  retaining  fee  had  been  a  thousand 
pounds,  and  the  scene  of  the  trial  had  been  in  the 
House  of  Lords  instead  of  at  the  Old  Bailey.  In  a 
few  earnest,  eloquent  words,  he  recounted  the  wrongs 
that  had  been  heaped  upon  the  prisoner — wrongs,  he 
said,  that  would  have  broken  the  heart  of  the  most 
patient  wife,  but  that  had  driven  this  wild,  impassioned 
woman,  with  her  ill-balanced  brain  and  ill-regulated 
heart,  perfectly  frantic  with  jealousy;  so  that  in  a 
moment  of  intolerable  provocation,  and  in  a  paroxysm 


162  THE  LOST  HEIR 

of  furious  frenzy,  she  had  committed  the  crime  _or 
which  she  stood  arraigned,  but  for  which  no  judge 
or  jury  could  hold  her  responsible. 

Then  he  produced  his  witnesses. 

First,  in  succession,  came  the  women  who  had  lived 
in  the  house  with  Madge,  and  who  testified  to  the 
provocations — "aggrawations"  they  called  them — that 
the  prisoner  had  received  from  the  deceased.  After 
them  came  the  physicians  who  had  examined  the  pris 
oner  in  her  cell,  and  who  now  testified  to  her  mental 
derangement  and  moral  irresponsibility. 

The  case  for  the  defence  was  closed  by  the  young 
advocate  in  a  most  powerful  address  to  the  jury  on 
behalf  of  the  prisoner. 

The  judge  summed  up  the  evidence  in  a  very  impar 
tial  manner,  and  then  gave  the  case  to  the  jury. 

And  it  was  assuredly  due  to  the  learning  and  logic, 
earnestness  and  eloquence  of  the  young  counsel  for  the 
defence  that  the  jury  brought  in  their  modified  verdict 
of: 

"Guilty,  with  a  strong  recommendation  to  the  mercy 
of  the  crown." 

The  prisoner  was  immediately  remanded  to  Newgate 
to  await  the  pleasure  of  her  majesty. 

Another  case  was  called.  And  the  friends  of  poor 
Madge  Brice,  breathing  more  freely,  arose  and  with 
drew  from  the  court. 

Mrs.  Melliss  looked  around  in  the  crowd  for  Kachel 
Wood,  and,  catching  sight  of  the  poor  seamstress,  beck 
oned  her  to  approach. 

"I  saw  you  looking  ready  to  faint,  my  poor  girl,  while 
you  were  sitting  in  the  courtroom.  And  so  you  must 
take  a  seat  in  the  cab  with  me,  and  I  will  take  you 
home  before  I  go  back  to  the  Brunswick,"  said  the  lady, 
as  the  seamstress  came  upxto  her. 

"But  will  it  not  be  too  much  trouble?" 

"No;  I  want  a  long  ride,  after  sitting  still  so  long." 

"But  shall  I  not  inconvenience  Mr.  Melliss  and  Mr. 
Percy?" 

"Oh!  they  are  not  going  with  me.     They  have  gone 


THE  LOST  HEIR  163 

off  together  to  write  up  the  petition  which  is  to  accom 
pany  the  recommendation  for  mercy." 

"Will  poor  Madge  be  pardoned,  do  you  think?" 

"Hardly!  She  will  probably  be  dealt  with  as  a  crim 
inal  lunatic,  and  imprisoned  in  the  asylum  for  such 
persons,  during  the  pleasure  of  her  majesty." 

"And  that  means  for  life?" 

"I  think,  in  such  cases  as  this,  that  it  does." 

"Well,  madam,  at  least  that  poor  creature  owes  her 
life  to  your  stepson." 

"I  think  certainly  she  does." 

And  then  they  talked  of  the  eloquence  of  the  young 
barrister,  and  of  other  matters  connected  with  the 
trial,  until  they  reached  a  certain  point,  where  Mrs. 
Melliss  ordered  the  coachman  to  stop. 

He  drew  up  before  an  intelligence  office. 

"I  must  go  in  here,  Eachel.  My  maid  is  about  to 
leave  me.  She  is  going  with  her  parents  to  Australia. 
And  I  have  to  look  up  another  one.  A  great  nuisance, 
Rachel!  It  is  all  a  lottery,  in  which  the  prizes  are 
as  one  in  a  hundred  among  the  blanks.  I  don't  like 
ladies'  maids  as  a  class.  I  do  wish  I  could  find  a  tidy, 
respectable  young  person  who  had  never  been  in  service 
before,  and  would  be  willing  to  come  to  me,"  saiJ  the 
lady,  as  she  was  lifting  the  front  of  her  dress  to  step 
out  of  the  carriage. 

"Stop,  dear  Mrs.  Melliss,  please!"  said  Rachel,  sud 
denly.  "I  know  just  the  girl  to  suit  you !" 

Mrs.  Melliss  sat  down  in  her  carriage  again,  and 
Rachel  continued: 

"She  is  Mary  Kempton.  She  is  a  pious,  intelligent, 
clean  girl ;  very  pleasant  looking  also.  I  should  not 
venture  to  recommend  her  to  you,  if  I  were  not  sure 
that  you  would  find  her  a  real  treasure.  And  oh!  it 
would  be  such  a  real  blessing  to  her  to  take  service 
with  you." 

"How  zealous  you  are!    Where  is  this  paragon?" 

"She  lives  with  her  parents  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
house  where  I  live.  They  keep  the  old-clothes  shop 
that  you  saw  there.  She  has  never  been  in  service; 


164  THE  LOST  HEIR 

and  all  I  beg  of  you,  madam,  is  that  you  will  see  her 
and  judge  for  yourself,  before  you  engage  any  one 
else." 

"I  shall  not  get  out  here.  Drive  to  Junk  lane,"  said 
the  lady  to  the  cabman,  who  was  still  standing  at  the 
door,  waiting  orders.  "I  will  see  her  at  once,"  she 
explained,  turning  to  Rachel,  as  the  man  closed  the 
door,  remounted  to  his  box,  and  started  his  horses. 
They  reached  the  house  in  Junk  lane.  Rachel  Wood 
took  Mrs.  Melliss  up  to  her  own  room,  and  then  went 
downstairs  and  brought  Mary  Kempton  up  for  exam 
ination. 

The  lady  and  the  girl  were  favorably  impressed  with 
each  other  at  first  sight.  And  a  frank  conversation 
of  half  an  hour's  duration  confirmed  these  first  im 
pressions. 

In  brief,  Mary  Kempton  was  engaged  as  lady's  maid 
to  Mrs.  Melliss  at  wages  of  thirty  pounds  a  year;  and 
she  was  to  enter  upon  her  new  situation  upon  the  first 
of  the  ensuing  January.  And  it  was  hard  to  tell  who 
was  the  most  pleased  with  the  new  arrangement,  Mrs. 
Melliss,  Mary  Kempton,  or  poor  Rachel  Wood. 

A  few  days  after  this,  Madge  Brice's  fate  was  decid 
ed.  It  was  to  be  imprisonment  in  the  Asylum  for 
Criminal  Lunatics  during  her  majesty's  pleasure. 

This  asylum  was  known  to  be  conducted  on  the  most 
humane  and  enlightened  principles.  And  this  decision 
gave  much  satisfaction  to  all  the  well-wishers  of  poop 
Madge,  evcept  her  old  mother,  Ruth  Drug,  who,  instead 
of  being  grateful,  was  furious. 

"They  might  as  well  a  hanged  her  at  once  and  put 
her  out  of  her  misery,"  she  grumbled  to  any  one  who 
would  listen.  And  then  to  little  Benny  she  said: 

"Come,  lad.  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  this  here  place 
ever  since  what  happened.  All  the  nobs  have  left  this 
here  foggy,  smoky,  nasty  town,  and  have  gone  away 
down  to  the  South  Coast,  where  they  say  it  be  mostly 
clear  and  mild.  Why  not  we,  too?  We'll  folly  the 
nobs,  lad!  Well  take  advantage  of  this  fine  weather 
and  tramp  do\vn  to  Brighting.  We'll  do  it  afore  Tony 


THE  LOST  HEIR  165 

gets  out  o'  gaol  to  stop  you.  It  will  be  jolly  fun  for 
the  likes  o'  you,  lad,  to  go  on  the  tramp,"  she  added. 

But  Benny  did  not  seem  to  see  it.  He  was  grieving 
himself  almost  to  death  about  his  "mammy."  She  had 
been  a  very  capricious  mammy  to  him — scolding,  shak 
ing  and  beating  him  much  often  than  petting  or  caress 
ing  him;  but  still  she  was  the  only  mammy  he  ever 
knew,  and  he  wept  over  her  fate  as  if  his  heart  would 
break. 

Old  Ruth  Drug  having  decided  to  set  out  with  Benny 
early  the  next  morning  on  a  begging  tramp  to  Brighton, 
went  into  her  own  room,  drank  all  the  rum  that  was 
left  in  the  bottle,  and  laid  down  to  go  to  sleep. 

Little  Benny  was  left  to  do  as  he  pleased,  and  he 
pleased  to  play  about  the  passages  and  stairs  with  his 
dear  little  friend  Suzy. 

On  this  same  day  came  Mrs.  Melliss  to  give  some 
final  instructions  to  her  newly-engaged  maid,  and  also 
to  leave  some  work  with  Rachel,  and  to  bid  her  good-by 
before  returning  to  Brighton. 

She  went  up  immediately  to  Rachel's  room,  and  re 
quested  the  seamstress  to  send  for  Mary  Kempton. 

Rachel  Wood  opened  the  door  and  called  little  Benny 
from  the  passage,  and  sent  him  on  the  errand. 

Mary  Kempton  soon  obeyed  the  summons,  and  pre 
sented  herself  before  her  new  mistress. 

Mrs.  Melliss  gave  her  some  few  directions  as  to  how 
and  when  she  should  come  down  to  her  at  Brighton, 
and  then  kindly  dismissed  her. 

When  Mary  had  curtseyed  and  left  the  room,  Mrs. 
Melliss  turned  to  Rachel  and  said: 

"I  am  going  back  to  Brighton  by  the  ten  a.  m.  train 
to-morrow ;  but  before  I  go  I  wish  to  do  something  for 
the  poor  people.  One  cannot  pretend  to  help  all  the 
poor  of  London ;  but  one  should  do  something  for  such 
as  come  immediately  under  one's  own  observation,  you 
know,  Rachel,"  she  added  apologetically,  and  blushing 
for  her  own  zeal. 

Rachel  did  not  reply.  She  thought  of  little  Benny 
and  Suzy,  and  the  scores  of  children  she  knew,  who 


166  THE  LOST  HEIE 

were  growing  up  in  ignorance,  squalor  and  vice.  But 
she  also  knew  that  it  would  be  utterly  useless  to  at 
tempt  to  save  them,  unless  they  could  be  taken  by  force 
from  the  influence  of  their  unworthy  parents. 

"Tell  me  now,  Kachel,  who  are  most  in  want  in  this 
house?"  inquired  Mrs.  Melliss. 

"There  is  no  one  here  suffering  from  any  cause  but 
idleness  and  drunkenness,  unless  they  be  old  Ruth 
Drug,  the  mother  of  Madge  Brice,  and  old  Mrs.  Flow 
ers,  the  grandmother  of  Fanny.  Both  these  poor  old 
women  have  lost  their  last  daughter  by  that  sad  trag 
edy,  and  they  are  almost  entirely  destitute." 

"Here,  then,  Rachel,  here  is  a  ten-pound  note.  I 
leave  it  in  your  hands  for  their  benefit.  Give  it  to  them 
in  such  instalments  as  you  deem  prudent.  And  write 
to  me  when  you  require  more,"  said  Mrs.  Melliss,  as 
she  arose  to  take  leave. 

Rachel  also  arose  to  attend  her  downstairs. 

When  they  went  into  the  passage  a  curious  thing 
happened.  They  found  little  Benny  playing  there 
alone.  Little  Suzy  was  gone.  She  had  been  carried 
off  by  her  father  to  act  her  part  in  the  matinee  at  the 
Thespian.  Mrs.  Melliss  glanced  at  the  boy  as  he  sat 
playing  marbles  by  himself  in  the  passage,  and  then 
she  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him.  To  be  sure,  his 
poor  little  clothes  were  both  ragged  and  dirty,  his 
shapely  little  feet  were  bare,  and  his  milk-white  knees 
showed  through  the  holes  in  his  trousers.  But  his 
complexion  was  so  fair  and  clear,  his  features  were  so 
regular  and  delicate,  his  hair  was  so  fine  and  golden- 
hued,  his  expression  was  so  refined,  and  more  than  all, 
his  eyes,  as  he  lifted  them  to  the  lady's  face,  were  so 
clear  and  frank,  and — yes!  where  had  she  seen  these 
eyes  before? — these  sweet,  serious,  steady,  intense  eyes? 
She  could  not  remove  hers  from  the  boy.  A  rare  gem 
shining  in  a  gutter!  A  fair  flower  blooming  on  a 
dunghill!  Such  seemed  this  beautiful  child,  living 
in  this  wretched  tenement  house. 

Was  it  his  beauty  alone  that  fascinated  her  gaze? 
Scarcely,  for  suddenly  she  started  and  inquired : 

"Whose  child  is  this?" 


THE  LOST  HEIR  167 

"He  was  Madge  Brice's.    He  is  Ruth  Drug's  now." 

"It  is  amazing!" 

"What  is?" 

"The  likeness  between  this  boy  and  the  little  Earl 
of  Wellrose,  the  Duke  of  Cheviot's  son  and  heir." 

"We  do  see  strange  likenesses  in  this  world,"  re 
marked  Rachel. 

"But  this  is  more  than  a  likeness ;  this  child  is  the 
very  counterpart,  the  fac'simile,  the  double  of  the  Earl 
of  Wellrose !  How  very,  very  strange !  Who  is  he,  did 
you  say?" 

"I  said  he  was  Madge  Brice's  child ;  that  is,  I  mean 
her  foster-child.  He  was  a  love-child,  left  in  her  charge 
and  then  deserted.  No  one  here,  not  even  Madge, 
knows  anything  else  about  him." 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  muttered  Mrs.  Melliss,  in  a  low 
voice.  "If  it  should  be  so!  But  it  cannot  be!  The 
duke,  even  as  a  young  man,  bore  an  excellent  character. 
But  it  is  most  strange !  Here,  Rachel,  take  this  guinea 
and  buy  the  poor  boy  a  suit  of  clothes.  And  here,  my 
pretty  boy,  take  this  shilling  and  spend  as  you  like," 
she  added,  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  child. 

She  then  shook  hands  with  Rachel  and  went  away. 

The  next  morning,  old  Ruth,  happy  in  the  possession 
of  two  sovereigns  given  her  out  of  the  little  fund  left 
in  Rachel's  hands,  and  Benny,  delighted  with  his  new 
suit  of  clothes,  set  out  on  their  tramp  to  Brighton. 
Will  Benny  meet  his  gracious  mother,  who  is  spending 
the  winter  there?  We  shall  see. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

WANDERING  BENNY. 

The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Cheviot  were  at  their 
house  on  Brunswick  terrace,  Brighton,  for  the  winter, 
or  until  the  meeting  of  Parliament  in  February  should 
recall  them  to  London. 

They  had  now  been  married  more  than  seven  years, 


168  THE  LOST  HEIR 

and  their  marriage  had  been  very  prolific.  There  were 
now  five  children  in  the  Cheviot  nursery.  Besides  the 
little  Lord  Wellrose,  aged  about  six  years,  who  stood 
in  our  poor  little  outcast  Benny's  rightful  place,  there 
were  four  little  ladies — Lady  Jessie,  aged  five;  Clem- 
ence,  three;  Hester,  two,  and  Eva,  who  was  still  in  the 
cradle. 

Never  lived  there,  in  any  rank  of  life,  a  more  con 
scientious  and  devoted  mother  than  was  the  young 
Duchess  of  Cheviot.  She  had  a  very  learned  and  ac 
complished  governess  for  her  children,  but  she  herself 
was  their  principal  educator.  Especially  she  cultivated 
in  their  hearts  the  love  of  God  and  of  their  fellow- 
beings.  She  taught  them  that  "love  is  the  fulfilling  of 
the  law."  And  she  brought  all  good  and  beautiful  in 
fluences  of  religion,  poetry,  art  and  observation  to 
cause  them  to  feel  as  well  as  to  know  this  central  truth 
of  our  lives. 

The  little  Earl  of  Wellrose  and  the  little  Lady  Jessie 
Douglas  received  all  these  lessons  with  reverence  and 
affection.  The  other  children  were  yet  too  young  to 
understand  much  about  the  matter. 

If  the  duchess  hoped  more  from  one  of  her  children 
than  from  all  the  others,  it  was  from  the  little  Lord 
Wellrose — perhaps  because  he  was  the  Earl  of  Well- 
rose,  the  eldest  son  and  heir,  and  the  only  one,  as  far 
as  she  knew.  At  all  events  she  hoped  much  from  the 
future  of  the  little  earl.  She  saw  in  him  not  the  future 
head  of  the  renowned  old  house  of  Douglas-Cheviot,  not 
the  future  statesman,  or  minister;  oh,  no!  her  vision 
was  higher!  for  she  saw  in  him  the  future  humanita 
rian,  the  philanthropist,  the  lover  of  his  fellow  man, 
in  whose  life  thousands  of  other  lives  should  be  re 
deemed  and  blessed. 

Lady  Jessie  was  very  like  her  brother,  but  she  was 
more  impulsive  and  less  intellectual. 

And  not  only  by  cultivating  in  her  children  the  love 
of  humanity,  but  by  many  schemes  of  benevolence,  did 
the  young  duchess  seek  to  serve  humanity. 

On  every  one  of  her  large  estates  she  established 
industrial  schools.  And  even  in  London,  in  several 


\ 


THE  LOST  HEIR  169 

poor  neighborhoods,  she  had  opened  day  schools  for 
the  poorest  children.  And  if  she  had  only  known  any 
thing  about  that  house  in  Junk  lane,  she  would  have 
hired  the  largest  room  in  it  for  an  infant  school,  and 
engaged  Rachel  as  its  teacher.  Let  us  hope  that  some 
day  her  intimate  friend,  Mrs.  Melliss,  may  chance  to 
drop  some  words  that  may  call  her  attention  to  it. 
What  a  happy  thing  that  would  be  for  the  poor  seam 
stress,  for  the  neglected  children  she  loves  so  well,  and 
possibly  for  little  Benny  also ! 

By  the  way,  there  was  this  slight  difference  between 
the  benevolent  instincts  of  these  two  ladies : 

The  duchess,  who  had  never  entered  the  courts  of 
poverty,  where  she  might  have  seen  for  herself  the 
utter  destitution  of  that  class,  but  who  found  in  the 
newspapers  much  about  juvenile  depravity,  felt  a 
deeper  pity  for  the  children,  because  in  their  docile 
infancy  they  were  being  formed  into  criminals,  as  she 
read  daily  in  the  public  prints,  than  because  they  were 
suffering  from  famine,  squalor  and  disease,  of  which 
she  knew  practically  nothing. 

Angela  Melliss,  on  the  contrary,  who  was  a  frequent 
visitor  in  their  wretched  abodes,  and  who  saw  with 
her  own  eyes,  heard  with  her  own  ears,  and  "smelt  with 
her  own  nose"  this  hideous  state  of  famine,  squalor  and 
disease,  even  while  she  deplored  the  want  of  moral 
training  that  was  leading  them  to  perdition,  felt  a 
quicker  sympathy  for  their  present  and  more  pressing 
needs,  and  was  more  interested  that  they  should  be 
washed,  clothed  and  fed  than  that  they  should  be 
schooled. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  the  objects  of  their  char 
ity  could  these  ladies  have  combined  in  efforts  for  their 
relief.  But,  as  yet,  the  Duchess  of  Cheviot  and  Mrs. 
Melliss,  each  working  so  zealously  in  the  same  holy 
cause,  and  meeting  so  frequently  in  social  circles,  had 
never  chanced  to  meet  in  their  work,  or  to  act  in 
unison. 

The  young  Duchess  of  Cheviot  was  enjoying  a  very 
delightful  season  this  winter  at  Brighton,  for  her 


170  THE  LOST  HEIR 

pleasant  house  was  filled  with  all  her  best  beloved 
friends. 

There  was  the  Earl  of  Ornoch,  who  had  long  been 
quite  reconciled  to  his  cousin,  the  duchess;  and  with 
him  his  lovely  young  countess,  once  Miss  Chimboza, 
and  their  son  and  heir,  the  little  Viscount  Moray,  who 
was  about  the  same  age  as  the  small  Lady  Jessie 
Douglas,  with  whom  he  was  great  friends. 

And  there  was  Mr.  and  Lady  Margaret  Elphinstone, 
whom  we  first  knew  as  Captain  Francis  Harry  and 
Lady  Margaret  Douglas.  Some  three  years  after  the 
marriage  of  Captain  Harry  and  Lady  Margaret,  he 
inherited  the  estates  of  his  granduncle,  and  assumed 
the  name  and  arms  of  Elphinstone  of  Harewood — hav 
ing  sold  out  his  commission  in  the  army.  Therefore,  to 
avoid  confusion,  please  to  bear  in  mind  that  our  old 
friends,  Captain  Harry  and  Lady  Margaret,  are  now 
Mr.  and  Lady  Margaret  Elphinstone.  With  them  were 
their  two  fine  children,  Victoria,  aged  five,  and  Albert, 
aged  four. 

A  very  pleasant  party,  which  none  enjoyed  more 
than  the  children.  There  were  eight  of  them,  you  will 
observe — four  boys  and  four  girls. 

They  had  spent  Christmas  holidays  charmingly,  and 
they  were  now  about  to  wind  them  up  with  a  Twelfth- 
day  party  for  the  little  ones. 

Before  Brunswick  Terrace,  as  every  one  knows,  is  a 
beautiful  verdant  square,  green  even  in  the  dead  of  the 
winter.  A  large  reception-room  fronting  this  square 
was  selected  and  decorated  with  flowers,  for  the  chil 
dren's  Twelfth-day  party.  A  splendid  Twelfth-day 
cake  had  been  ordered  at  Mouton's,  and  had  been  sent 
home  that  morning. 

At  an  early  hour  of  the  evening,  or  rather  at  a  late 
hour  of  the  afternoon,  the  children,  gayly  dressed,  as 
sembled  in  this  room,  where  they  engaged  in  many  en 
livening  games.  Later  on  they  were  joined  by  their 
parents  and  friends.  And  as  the  crowning  event  of  the 
feast,  the  Twelfth-day  cake  was  to  be  cut,  and  he  or  she 
who  was  so  lucky  as  to  get  the  slice  with  the  ring  in  it 
was  to  be  crowned  with  a  holly  or  a  Christmas-rose 


THE  LOST  HEIR  171 

wreath,  king  or  queen  of  Twelfth    Day,    and   was  to 
select  his  or  her  consort. 

There  was  no  butler  or  footman  needed  here  to  wait. 
The  Twelfth-day  cake  stood  upon  its  stand  on  a  round 
table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  and  the  Duke  of  Chev 
iot  chose  himself  to  cut  it,  and  the  duchess  to  dis 
tribute  the  slices  to  the  eager  and  expectant  children. 
The  duke  and  duchess,  now  that  they  had  been  mar 
ried  seven  years,  and  had  a  family  of  five  children 
around  them,  were  in  no  may  else  changed  since  we 
knew  them  first.  The  duke  was  the  same  "Bonnie  Wil 
lie  Douglas,"  the  duchess  the  "Glad-eyed  Eglantine." 

Amid  the  skipping  and  dancing,  chattering  and 
laughing  of  the  irrepressible  young  ones,  the  great  cake 
was  cut  and  the  slices  distributed.  And  now  all  was 
anxiety  to  know  who  should  be  the  favorite  of  fortune, 
and  find  the  ring  in  his  or  her  slice. 

"Mamma,  dear,"  said  the  little  Lady  Jessie  Douglas, 
holding  her  own  slice  daintily  in  her  hand,  so  as  not  to 
break  the  snowy  frosting,  or  to  drop  a  crumb,  "please, 
may  I  do  what  I  like  with  my  slice?" 

"Certainly,  my  love,"  replied  the  duchess,  in  some 
curiosity,  as  her  "glad  eyes"  questioned  her  little 
daughter. 

"Then,  if  you  please,  mamma,  dear,  I  should  so  like 
to  give  it  to  a  poor  little  boy  I  saw  out  on  the  pave 
ment.  I  saw  him  through  the  window.  There  he  is 
now,"  said  the  little  lady,  holding  her  cake  carefully  in 
one  hand  while  she  parted  the  crimson  curtains  with 
the  other. 

"Very  well,  love,  you  shall  send  it  to  him.  Thomas !" 
— this  to  the  hall  footman. 

"Oh,  mamma!  please,  please,  T  want  to  give  it  to  him 
myself.  I  want  to  see  his  face  when  he  get  it.  I  would 
rather  see  his  face  when  he  gets  it  than  eat  the  cake 
myself.  Please,  please,  mamma,  dear,  let  me  give  it  to 
him  myself,  and  see  how  he  looks!  Won't  he  be  £lad?" 
How  could  the  young  mother,  consistently  with  her 
principles  of  humanity,  check  the  benevolent  impulses 
of  her  little  daughter,  even  when  they  seemed,  as  in 
this  case,  slightly  absurd? 


172  THE  LOST  HEIK 

"Thomas,"  she  said,  to  the  same  footman,  "go  and 
bring  in  the  little  boy  that  Lady  Jessie  points  out." 

The  tall  footman  touched  his  forehead  in  respectful 
silence  and  turned  to  obey. 

"Here,  Thomas;  it  is  that  little  pale  boy,  standing 
by  that  old,  old  woman.  Do  you  see  him?"  inquired 
the  child. 

"Yes,  my  lady,"  answered  the  man,  again  touching 
his  forehead,  as  he  went  out  to  follow  the  directions 
given  him. 

My  acute  reader  has  already  surmised  that  "the  little 
pale  boy  and  the  old,  old  woman"  on  the  pavement  out 
side  were  no  others  than  little  Benny  and  his  granny. 

They  had  tramped  and  begged  their  way  from  Lon 
don  to  Brighton,  stopping  at  the  tramps'  lodging- 
houses  in  the  villages  on  their  road  each  night,  and  re 
suming  their  journey  in  the  morning.  They  had  occu 
pied  a  week  in  their  journey,  and  had,  as  old  Kuth  said, 
"made  a  good  thing  of  it."  Almost  any  one  who  had 
anything  to  spare  was  willing  to  give  a  penny,  a  crust 
or  a  bone  to  the  fair  boy  or  to  the  poor  old  woman,  and 
some  were  both  able  and  willing  to  give  more. 

They  had  reached  Brighton  three  days  before  the 
Twelfth  Day,  and  they  had  taken  lodgings  in  a  miser 
able  tramps'  lodging-house  in  one  of  the  back  slums  of 
the  town. 

The  old  woman  tied  a  green  shade  over  her  eyes  and 
permitted  Benny  to  lead  her  through  the  streets  as 
though  she  were  blind. 

They  formed  a  pair  that  would  have  deceived  even  a 
metropolitan  policeman — that  fair,  beautiful  boy,  with 
his  clear,  pure  blue  eyes  and  his  pathetic  voice,  and  the 
seemingly  aged  and  blind  grandmother  whom  he  led. 

That  night  when  they  returned  to  their  miserable 
lodgings,  and  old  Kuth  counted  their  gains,  she  found 
that  they  had  bagged  three  shillings  and  nine  pence, 
in  silver  and  copper  coins. 

"Pretty  well  for  one  day,  Benny." 

"Yes,  granny." 

"You've  been  a  good  boy  to-day,  Benny,  a  very  good 
boy,  indeed.  Come,  kiss  me  now!" 


THE  LOST  HEIE  173 

And  little  Benny  put  his  arms  around  the  old  crone's 
neck  and  kissed  her  with  much  affection.  And  he  hon 
estly  believed  that  he  had  been  a  "very  good  boy"  that 
day,  and  he  felt  quite  happy  that  night. 

The  next  day  being  another  fine  one,  they  went  forth 
again.  On  this  occasion  they  went  down  to  the  beach. 
And  Benny  led  about  his  "poor,  old,  blind  granny,"  and 
begged  for  her  in  the  same  manner  and  with  the  same 
success  as  on  the  preceding  day. 

In  the  course  of  their  walk,  they  came  upon  a  very 
interesting  group — a  nursery  governess  with  her  young 
charge — not  an  unusual  sight  on  the  Brighton  sands  in 
the  height  of  the  season,  only  this  group  was  so  un 
usually  beautiful. 

It  was  Miss  Neville,  the  pretty  nursery  governess 
from  Brunswick  terrace,  with  the  Duchess  of  Cheviot's 
lovely  children. 

Attracted  by  her  smiling  face,  little  Benny  imme 
diately  addressed  her: 

"Please,  ma'am,  only  one  penny,  for  my  poor,  old, 
blind  granny." 

"You  poor  child!"  murmured  the  gentle  girl,  gazing 
with  compassion  on  the  fair,  refined  face  of  the  beggar 
boy,  and  mentally  contrasting  it  with  his  coarse  cloth 
ing  and  bare  feet,  as  she  drew  a  sixpence  from  her 
pocket  and  dropped  it  in  his  hand. 

While  he  was  very  sweetly  thanking  her,  the  little 
Cheviot  girls  crowded  around  him.  Here  was  an 
especial  object  of  charity!  Such  a  beautiful  little  beg 
gar  boy!  And  oh!  so  much  like  their  own  brother 
Wellrose!  thought  the  little  ladies,  as  they  searched 
their  pockets  for  small  silver  coins. 

But  before  they  could  offer  him  any  money,  little 
Lord  Wellrose,  who  had  been  playing  at  a  short  dis 
tance,  came  up,  and  came  through  the  group  to  see  the 
little  beggar. 

And  the  two  brothers — the  earl  and  the  outcast- 
stood  face  to  face.  How  much  alike  they  looked! 
Both  had  inherited  the  delicate  features,  the  fair  com 
plexion,  golden  hair  and  the  clear  blue  eyes,  the  sweet, 


174  THE  LOST  HEIR 

serious,  steadfast,  penetrating  eyes  of  their  father, 
"Bonnie  Willie  Douglas." 

They  gazed  at  each  other  with  a  strange  mutual 
fascination. 

"Why — why  do  you  go  barefooted,  boy?"  at  length 
inquired  the  little  earl. 

"Please,  sir,  because  I  ha'n't  got  no  shoes,"  answered 
Benny,  quite  truly. 

"But  you  have  very  good  clothes  on.  It  is  unusual 
to  see  a  boy  with  such  good  clothes  and  bare  feet  at 
this  season,"  said  the  boy  earl. 

"Please,  sir,  a  lady  guv  Miss  Eachel  Wood  money  to 
get  me  these  clothes,  and  she  got  'em  and  put  'em  on  to 
me." 

"I  wonder  why  she  didn't  get  you  shoes  at  the  same 
time." 

"Lord  Wellrose,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Neville,  gently, 
"you  should  not  cross-question  the  poor  boy.  Be  con 
siderate,  my  love." 

"I  am  so,  Miss  Neville,  dear.  But  I  wish  to  know  all 
about  this  class,  for  when  I  grow  up  and  have  the 
power,  I  mean  to  do  something,"  answered  the  little 
earl,  precisely  in  the  same  hopeful  spirit  in  which  his 
poor  brother,  the  little  outcast,  so  often  talked  of  what 
he  should  do  when  he  should  "git  a  big  man."  Then, 
turning  toward  the  beggar  boy,  he  inquired : 

"Why  didn't  the  lady  give  you  shoes  as  well  as 
clothes?" 

"Please,  my  lord,  I  had  a  pair  o'  shoes,  which  they 
weren't  so  old  then ;  but  I  wored  'em  out  on  the  tramp, 

did,  your  lordship,"  said  the  child,  upon  whom  the 
little  earl's  title  spoken  by  Miss  Neville  had  not  been 
lost. 

"Jessie!"  said  little  Lord  Wellrose,  "how  much 
money  have  you?" 

"Oh,  Alick,  I'm  so  sorry!  I  spent  all  my  money  buy 
ing  shells  on  the  pier.  And  I  didn't  care  for  them 
either,  for  I  gave  them  away  the  next  minute,"  an 
swered  little  Lady  Jessie. 

"Have  you  any,  Clem?" 


THE  LOST  HEIR  175 

r  "}  h™ve  ane  shmnS,  Alick,  dear,"  replied  the  small 
Lady  C  emence.    "And  you  may  give  it  to  the  bov™ 
,:i.,A? _*•  d?t  a  sisPen?>  41!t-    An'  >ou  may  div  it  to  « 


>mi    h      t    K  '  v       o  de 

Belter  S°°Z  W1Z'    Said  little  tw°-year-old  Lady 

"Hetty,  you  are  a  duck!  Hand  over  the  sixpence. 
So  are  you,  Clem!  Produce  your  shilling.  Eighteen 
pence  between  you!  Jessie,  I'm  ashamed  of  you' 
Where  do  you  expect  to  go  when  you  die?  To  the'rich 

ufiw'Srk?,  W6.1  And  y°u  kn^  where  that 
JS,  said  the  httle  lord,  significantly,  as  he  searched  his 
own  pockets  and  drew  forth  a  few  small  silver  coins! 
which  he  proceeded  to  count.  "Three  and  six  here,  and 
eighteen  pence  between  you  two;  five  shillings  in  all 
31188  Neville,  dear,  is  this  enough  to  buy  this  bov  a  pair 
of^shoes?"  he  inquired,  turning  toward  his  governess. 

es,  love,  and  a  pair  of  socks  also,"  answered  the 
governess  who,  acting  under  the  direction  of  the 
duchess,  always  encouraged  the  children  in  acts  of 
self-denial  and  benevolence. 

Here,  then,  little   boy,    take   this    and  go  and  bur 
yourself  a  pair  of  shoes  and  stockings,"  said  little  Lord 

Irose,  offering  his  money. 

hadShP?hlT'i  th«  '  6°7e™el«  interrupted;  "I  think  vou 
had  better  take  the  footman  and  go  with  this  bov  to 

"-er  S  ^°P°n  the  Ki"S's  «*d    ^d  have 


hifiHp-H  ,       the  Ki"S's  «*d,  ^d  have 

him  fitted  with  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  then  pav  for  them. 
And  afterward  take  him  to  a  haberdasher's  shop  and 
give  him  two  pair  of  socks.  Here  is  another  sixpence 
love,  to  buy  the  second  pair  of  socks  " 


Pm  S°  much 

tn'tl  cann°t,le«ve,  granny,"  objected  little  Bennv,  loval  ' 
to  the  wretched  old  imposter,  though  sorelv  tempted  to 

brotTer  ^  ^  °f  We'lr°Se'  his  "^  unkno^ 

m-v  s!sters  wi"  see  to  "PI-,  un- 


176  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"blind"     beggar     until     the     return     of     her    guide. 

Then  the  little  lord  and  the  little  beggar,  attended  by 
the  footman,  went  up  the  cliff  together  on  their  way  to 
the  King's  road. 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone,  Miss  Neville — who,  as  the 
daughter  of  a  clergyman,  knew  much  more  of  the  char 
acter  and  habits  of  tramps  and  beggars  than  do  other 
young  persons,  and  knew  that  they  frequently  took  out 
their  children  barefooted  and  half  naked  in  the  bitter 
est  cold  weather,  not  from  necessity,  but  for  the  pur 
pose  of  exciting  pity  and  gaining  alms — Miss  Neville, 
I  say,  turned  to  the  so-called  blind  woman,  and  said : 

"We  shall  probably  see  you  and  your  little  leader 
quite  often,  in  our  walks  upon  the  beach." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  it's  like  as  you'll  see  us  often.  I  wish 
I  could  see  you  as  well,"  whined  the  old  impostor. 

"Let  that  pass,"  said  the  governess,  who  had  her  sus 
picions  about  the  reality  of  the  blindness.  "What  I 
wish  to  impress  upon  you  is  this:  that,  as  we  shall  see 
you  often,  I  shall  always  look  to  see  whether  the  poor 
child  who  accompanies  you  wears  the  shoes  that  will 
be  given  to  him.  If  he  does  not,  if  he  comes  out  bare 
footed  again,  I  shall  feel  obliged  to  recommend  you 
both  to  the  attention  of  the  proper — 

"Oh,  ma'am,  dear!"  interrupted  the  old  deceiver, 
"you'd  never  go  for  to  mistrust  me  of  selling  or  pawn 
ing  my  own  dear,  darling  Benny's  boots,  would  yer?" 

"I  was  not  suspecting  you  of  any  such  design.  But 
only  a  few  days  ago  little  Lady  Jessie  Douglas  here 
gave  an  old  woman  a  good,  warm  shawl,  and  the  next 
freezing  day  we  found  the  same  old  woman  on  the 
beach  without  her  shawl.  When  questioned  about  it, 
she  told  us  a  falsehood;  she  said  her  shawl  had  been 
stolen  from  her.  But  upon  investigation  we  discov 
ered  that  she  still  possessed  the  shawl,  but  would  not 
wear  it  even  in  the  coldest  weather,  because  'it  spoiled 
her  trade.7  Ladies  and  gentlemen  seeing  her  comfort 
ably  clothed  would  not  give  her  so  much  alms.  And 
such  was  the  cupidity  of  that  old  woman  that  she  would 
risk  her  life  for  'more  alms/  " 


THE  LOST  HEIR  177 

"Oh,  my  pretty  lady !  do  yer  go  for  to  think  as  I  am 
one  o'  them  sort  o'  cattle?"  whined  the  crone. 

UI  hope  not." 

"No,  indeed,  my  pretty,  I  ain't  that  sort." 

"Now,  what  I  wish  you  to  understand  is  this:  That 
your  little  leader  must  wear  the  shoes  and  stockings 
that  are  given  him,  even  though  his  doing  so  should  in 
jure  trade,  for  we  will  not  have  his  health  suffer." 

"Surely  not,  ma'am,  not  on  no  account,"  said  the  old 
hypocrite,  with  a  show  of  great  feeling. 

Presently  the  little  earl  and  the  little  outcast,  attended 
by  the  footman,  came  down  the  cliff  together,  Benny 
delighted  in  his  new  shoes,  and  Lord  Wellrose  pleased 
with  the  pleasure  he  had  given. 

When  Benny  had  again  thanked  his  small  benefac 
tors,  and  they  had  sufficiently  admired  him,  the  gov 
erness  gathered  her  flock  together  and  took  them  home 
to  their  fold  on  Brunswick  terrace. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
THE  CHILDREN'S  PARTY. 

It  was  the  next  evening  after  this,  just  as  the  lamps 
were  lighted,  that  little  Benny  and  his  grandmother,  in 
the  course  of  their  rambles,  found  themselves  on  Bruns 
wick  terrace,  on  the  upper  walk,  between  the  houses  and 
the  green  square  facing  the  sea.  The  weather  was  very 
cold,  and  the  ground  was  covered  with  a  thing  coating 
of  snow  and  a  slight  glazing  of  ice.  But  Benny  wore 
his  new  shoes  and  stockings,  and  never  felt  so  comfort 
able  before  in  all  his  little  life. 

They  were  passing  on,  when  the  sudden  lighting  up  of 
one  of  the  houses  attracted  Benny's  attention,  and  he 
stopped  to  look  at  it. 

He  saw  the  brilliant  lights  from  within,  glowing 
through  rich  crimson  curtains,  and  shining  redly  on  the 
snow  without.  The  shutters  were  not  closed,  "nor  did 
the  middle  edges  of  the  two  sides  of  the  curtains  meet, 


178  THE  LOST  HEIK 

so  it  happened  that  little  Benny  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
interior  of  the  room — a  room  glowing  with  lamplight 
and  firelight  over  its  rich  red  furniture,  and  decorated 
with  exotic  flowers,  and  half-filled  with  little  children 
gayly  dressed  and  holding  festival. 

"Oh,  granny,"  exliaimed  the  child,  in  delight,  "that's 
like  heaven !" 

"What's  like  heaven,  little  fool?" 

"That — in  there!"  said  Benny,  pointing  to  the  glow 
ing  crimson  windows,  through  which  the  scene  within 
was  visible,  and  going  as  near  the  house  as  he  could, 
and  gazing  at  the  life  within.  "Oh,  yes,  that  must  be 
like  heaven!" 

"Yes,  dearies,  that's  like  heaven,  and  that  is  heaven, 
the  only  sort  of  heaven,  and  none  but  the  rich  folks  can 
enjoy  it.  It  ain't  for  the  likes  o'  you  and  me,  boy," 
snarled  old  Kuth. 

"Lors,  no,  granny!  Why,  I  don't  think  as  how  if  I 
was  to  hook  and  crib  fur  you  all  day  and  all  night,  and 
git  you  as  much  as  five  bobs  a  day,  as  ever  that  would 
make  I  good  enough  to  go  to  that  sort  of  heaven !" 

"No,  Benny,  that  it  wouldn't ;  'cause  you  couldn't  hook 
and  crib  enough,  after  all.  But  that's  the  way  them 
and  sich  as  them  got  their  heaven — by  hooking  and 
cribbing ;  ay,  and  by  lying  and  murdering  as  well !  And 
yer  couldn't  do  that,  yer  know,  Benny,  and  so  yer 
couldn't  enj'y  their  heaven." 

"No,  granny ;  but  when  I  git  a  big  man  I  can." 

"Aye,  aye !  Come  along,  boy ;  we  must  be  going 
home,"  said  the  old  creature,  rising  from  her  seat  on 
the  curbstone. 

But  just  at  that  moment  the  boy  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  a  face  at  the  window,  and  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  granny!  I  do  believe  as  how  them  is  the  little 
swells  as  guv  us  money  on  the  beach  yes'day!  Please, 
granny,  stop !  I  want  to  watch  'em !" 

"I  want  to  be  getting  on  home.  I  want  my  toddy 
and  to  go  to  bed,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"Jest  one  minit,  granny !"  pleaded  the  boy. 

"No,  I  keep  on  a  telling  of  you!  Come  along!" 
growled  the  old  woman,  crossly. 


THE  LOST  HEIK  179 

The  boy  sighed,  and  was  about  to  turn  from  this 
beautiful  glimpse  of  a  happier  life  than  he  had  ever 
imagined,  to  go  and  crouch  in  his  miserable  dark,  un 
holy  den  of  a  home,  among  thieves  and  drunkards,  and 
worse,  of  both  men  and  women,  when  the  hall  door  of 
that  happy  home  opened,  and  a  tall  footman  came  out 
and  passed  through  the  iron  gate,  and  came  directly  up 
to  little  Benny. 

"Please,  sir,  I  wasn't  a  doing  of  no  harm,  sir;  only  a 
looking  on,  sir,"  said  little  Benny,  who  naturally  sup 
posed  that  this  liveried  servant  had  come  to  order  him 
away.  "Please,  sir,  I  am  just  a  going  to  move  on,  sir!" 

"No,  you're  not!  not  if  I  know  it!  You've  got  to 
come  right  in  to  her  grace." 

"Please,  sir,  don't  take  me!  Please,  sir,  I  ain't  been 
up  to  nothink!  I  ain't,  indeed,  sir!"  pleaded  little 
Benny,  holding  back  and  preparing  for  a  run. 

"Who  says  you  have,  little  pig's  head?  What  are 
you  afraid  on?  Nobody's  a  going  to  hurt  you.  Her 
grace  will  have  you  in  there,  that's  all.  The  children 
are  a  having  of  a  Twelfth-night  frolic,  with  a  Twelfth- 
day  cake  and  that.  And  her  ladyship,  little  Lady  Jes 
sie,  has  a  fancy  to  have  you  in  and  to  give  you  her  slice 
of  cake.  There,  now  you've  got  the  whole  on't.  So 
come  along!"  said  the  footman,  taking  hold  of  his  hand. 

Benny  still  hesitated,  until  old  Ruth  stooped  and 
whispered  to  him : 

"It's  all  right,  dearies!  You  go.  It's  one  of  them 
fine  ladies'  whims.  They  has  their  whims,  dearie.  And, 
to  do  'em  justice,  they's  mostly  willing  to  pay  for  'em ! 
Now  come  along  here  with  me  a  minit,"  she  added, 
drawing  the  boy  away  to  a  safe  distance,  and  then 
whispering:  "And  when  yer  get  inside  o'  that  fine 
house,  keep  yer  eyes  open  and  look  sharp  like  a  good 
boy,  and  see  what  you  can  hook  for  yer  poor,  old 
granny — a  silver  spoon,  dearie,  or  a  fork,  or  a  napkin 
ring,  or  somethink.  Do  you  mind,  dearie?" 

Little  Benny  smiled  and  nodded  intelligently.  And 
the  old  temptress  led  him  back  to  the  footman. 

"There,  my  man,  there's  my  precious  lad.  Take  him 
in  to  the  gentlefolks.  I'll  wait  here  for  him  till  you 


180  THE  LOST  HEIR 

bring  him  back.  And,  oh !  if  you'd  please  to  remember 
the  poor  old  grandmother  waiting  out  here  alone  in  the 
cold,  and  would  bring  her  out  summat  to  warm  her  poor 
old  insides,  it  would  be  a  blessing  on  yer,  young  man," 
she  whined. 

"I'll  ask  the  housekeeper.  And  maybe,  as  the  boy  is 
going  into  the  hall,  I  may  get  leave  to  come  and  fetch 
you  into  the  kitchen,  and  give  you  something  comfort 
able  by  the  fire/'  said  the  good-natured  young  fellow,  as 
he  led  Benny  away. 

"Blessings  on  yer  handsome  face  for  that,  young 
man!"  sighed  the  old  hypocrite,  as  he  left  her. 

Thomas,  the  footman,  led  little  Benny  into  the  house 
through  the  servants'  door  and  then  discreetly  took  him 
first  to  his  own  room,  where  he  made  him  wash  his  face 
and  hands,  and  comb  his  hair,  and  brush  his  clothes, 
and  clean  his  shoes,  before  going  among  the  little  ladies 
and  gentlemen. 

Then  he  took  him  upstairs  and  opened  the  door  of 
the  room  where  the  children  were  holding  their  festival, 
and,  seeing  Lady  Jessie  nearest,  he  announced  the  new 
arrival  as : 

"The  boy  from  the  sidewalk,  please  your  ladyship." 

"Why,  he  is  the  same  boy  we  met  yesterday  on  the 
beach,"  said  the  little  Earl  of  Wellrose,  coming  up  to 
welcome  the  little  outcast  Benny. 

"Of  course,  he  is  the  same  boy.  I  saw  him  standing 
looking  over  the  iron  railings,  and  I  knew  him  in  a  mo 
ment,  and  that  is  the  reason  I  wanted  to  have  him  in," 
said  Lady  Jessie. 

"And  I  divved  him  sispens  to  buy  his  sooz,"  put  in 
two-year-old  Lady  Hester. 

"Oh,  Hetty,  Hetty,  you  mustn't  talk  of  what  you  give. 
That  is  not  pretty.  You  must  never  'let  your  right 
hand'  you  know,"  said  little  Lady  Clemence,  gravely 
shaking  her  fair  curls. 

Meanwhile  Benny  stood  dazzled  and  dumfounded,  un 
til  the  fair  young  duchess  floated  toward  him,  and  said, 
very  sweetly: 

"My  boy,  don't  be  frightened.     My  daughter  wishes 


THE  LOST  HEIR  181 

to  give  you  a  piece  of  the  Twelfth-day  cake,  that  is  all. 
Take  it,  child,  and  sit  down  and  eat  it  if  you  like." 

And  Lady  Jessie  put  the  cake  in  his  hands,  and  told 
him  where  to  sit. 

/  Now,  little  Benny,  beggar  and  thief  as  he  was  being- 
trained  by  old  Ruth  to  become,  was,  nevertheless,  in  his 
heart  and  soul,  by  nature  and  inheritance,  a  very  per 
fect  little  gentleman.  He  thanked  the  duchess  and 
thanked  Lady  Jessie,  and  sat  down  where  he  was  told 
to  sit. 

"No,  break  your  cake,  little  boy.  You  must  know 
that  there  is  a  gold  ring  in  some  one  of  these  slices,  and 
it  has  not  been  found  yet.  It  may  be  in  yours.  But 
whoever  is  so  lucky  as  to  find  the  ring  becomes  king  of 
the  Twelfth-day  if  he  is  a  boy,  and  then  he  must  choose 
his  queen.  But,  if  a  girl  should  find  a  ring,  she  is  queen 
of  the  Twelfth-day,  and  must  choose  the  king.  There, 
now,  break  your  slice  and  see,"  said  Lady  Jessie. 

Fair,  kind  faces,  sweet,  soft  voices  all  around  him, 
soon  set  little  Benny  at  his  ease.  He  smiled  and  broke 
his  cake  in  two,  and  lo !  the  ring  dropped  out. 

The  children  all  clapped  their  hands  and  laughed 
with  glee  to  think  that  the  little  beggar  boy  from  the 
sidewalk  had  drawn  the  prize  that  was  to  make  him 
king  of  the  Twelfth-day. 

But,  as  for  Benny,  he  looked  aghast,  as  if  a  little  ser 
pent,  instead  of  a  ring,  had  dropped  from  his  cake.  And 
the  sight  of  his  face  made  the  children  laugh  the  more. 
"What  is  the  jest?"  inquired  the  young  Duke  of  Chev 
iot,  bonnie  Willie  Douglas,  bonnier  than  ever  now,  as 
he  re-entered  the  room  and  joined  the  merry  little 
group. 

The  laughing  children  explained  the  matter  in  a  few 
words. 

"And  now,  what  is  to  be  done,  papa?"  inquired  Lady 
Jessie,  the  little  contriver  of  all  the  mischief. 

"Why,  the  play  must  be  played  out,  of  course.  By 
every  rule  of  right  this  little  fellow  is  king  of  the 
Twelfth-day,  and  must  be  crowned  accordingly,"  said 
the  duke,  laying  his  delicate  hand  on  the  golden-haired 
head  of  the  boy,  and  looking  kindly  down  upon  the  fair, 


182  THE  LOST  HEIK 

refined  face  that  was  turned  up  to  his,  and  that  was-— 
oh !  so  like  his  own,  though  he  did  not  think  it. 

"But  he  will  not  know  what  to  do,"  objected  Lady 
Jessie. 

"A  not  unusual  dilemma  of  kings !"  laughed  the  duke. 
"He  must  be  instructed  by  his  ministers.  Here,  Well- 
rose,  my  son,  tell  this  young  king  what  he  ought  to  do." 

The  little  earl  came  forward  with  two  wreathes,  one 
of  holly  and  one  of  Christmas  roses,  and  he  said : 

"First,  I  must  put  this  holly  crown  upon  your  head. 
That  is  to  make  you  king." 

"Oh,  certainly.  The  crown  makes  the  king!  Noth 
ing  else  on  earth  is  required  to  do  so,"  laughed  the  duke, 
good-humoredly. 

The  little  Earl  of  Wellrose  then  set  the  holly  wreath 
upon  little  Benny's  head,  and  the  scarlet  berries  glowed 
brightly  among  their  shining  deep-green  leaves  amid 
Benny's  golden  curls.  All  the  children  laughed  with 
delight,  and  Benny  laughed  in  sympathy,  and  was 
pleased  because  he  could  please  them. 

"Oh,  is  he  not  beautiful  ?"  exclaimed  some  of  the  chil 
dren. 

"And,  oh!  isn't  he  like  Wellrose?"  inquired  the  oth 
ers. 

"Now,  then,  king,  you  will  take  this  crown  of  Christ 
mas  roses  and  look  around  over  the  ladies  present  and 
select  one  of  them  as  your  queen.  And  you  must  take  this 
crown  and  drop  on  one  knee  at  her  feet  and  make  any 
pretty  speech  that  comes  into  your  head,  and  offer  it  to 
her.  And,  if  she  is  so  good  as  to  accept  it,  you  must 
then  rise  and  set  it  on  her  head.  There,  that  is  as  much 
as  you  will  be  able  to  remember  at  one  time.  After  you 
have  done  that,  I  will  tell  you  what  next  to  do." 

Benny,  obedient,  anxious  to  please,  took  the  crown  of 
roses,  and  looked  around  in  a  great  bewilderment;  he 
seemed  unable  to  make  a  selection  amid  such  a  bevy  of 
little  beauties. 

"You  don't  know  whom  to  select.  I  must  help  you 
again.  Suppose  you  take  Jessie?  She  gave  you  the 
slice  of  cake  in  which  you  found  your  ring  that  made 


THE  LOST  HEIE  183 

you  king.    I  think  you  ought  to  take  Jessie,"  said  little 
Lord  Well  rose. 

"No,"  said  Benny,  very  gently;  "no;  I'm  loking  for 
that  lady. 

"What  lady,  boy?" 

"That  lady.    There  she  is !    I  see  her  now." 
And,  without  another  word,  he  walked  across  the 
room  to  the  sofa  where  the  duchess  sat,  and  he  dropped 
on  one  knee  before  her,  laid  the  rose  crown  at  her  feet, 
and  looked  up  into  her  face  in  silence.     He  could  not 
make  the  pretty  speech  that  had  been  suggested  to  him. 
"Is  this  for  ine,  my  boy?"  inquired  the  duchess. 
He  looked  at  her  in  dumb  distress.     Tears  filled  his 
eyes.     He  had  been  borne  in  her  bosom.     He  was  her 
first-born  child.    She  was  his  mother.    He  did  not  know 
this.     She  did  not  know  this.     Yet  the  bond  of  bonds 
was  mysteriously  felt  by  both. 

"Am  I  to  be  your  queen,  little  king?"  she  inquired, 
good-humoredly,  taking  up  the  wreath  he  had  laid  at 
her  feet. 

The  boy  attempted  to  answer,  but  burst  into  tears, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"Why  do  you  weep,  my  child?" 

X^~"I  don't — don't — don't  know.  It's  you,  ma'am;  and 
\  some — some — somethink  here !"  sobbed  the  boy,  putting 
\his  hands  to  his  throat  and  chest,  and  breaking  into 
)  hysterical  sobs. 

The  duchess  was  scarcely  less  distressed,  especially  as 
*  soon  as  she  saw  and  recognized  the  wonderful  likeness 
between  this  little  beggar  boy  and  her  own  noble  son, 
the  heir  of  a  dukedom.  But  the  likeness  taught  her  noth 
ing.  She  only  thought  that  it  was  strange,  and  felt 
that  it  was  distressing.  It  reminded  her  of  a  poor,  pale 
baby  she  had  once  seen,  who,  poor  and  pale  as  it  was, 
bore  a  marvelous  resemblance  to  iier  own  infant  son. 
But  she  never  thought  of  identifying  that  baby  with 
this  boy. 

"What  troubles  you,  my  poor  child?     I  wish  you 
could  tell  me,"  she  sweetly  said  to  the  weeping  boy. 
But  for  every  kind  word  she  uttered,  Benny  wept  the 


184  THE  LOST  HEIR 

harder,  while  the  little  ladies  and  gentlemen  gathered 
around  and  gazed  on  him  in  surprise  and  dismay. 

"Oh,  this  will  never  do,"  said  the  duke,  coming  up. 
"This  has  been  too  much  for  the  poor  boy.  Eglantine, 
love,  we  allow  our  little  ones  too  much  liberty.  This 
child  from  the  streets  should  never  have  been  brought  in 
here  for  their  amusement.  It  may  be  sport  for  them, 
but  it  is  death  to  him,  according  to  the  fable.  It  is  all 
very  well  to  bedeck  dogs  and  donkeys  with  wreaths  and 
ribbons  to  make  fun  for  children ;  but  human  creatures, 
even  of  the  lowest  degrees,  are  not  to  be  treated  so." 

Thus  spoke  the  young  duke,  like  many  another  well- 
meaning  young  man,  of  any  rank  in  society,  talking 
with  authority  of  what  he  knew  nothing  about. 

"I  do  not  think  it  was  done  for  sport.  I  think  it  was 
done  in  kindness,  dear  Willie,"  said  the  duchess. 

"At  any  rate,  you  see  that  the  boy  is  distressed  by 
his  position.  Here,  Thomas,"  he  called  to  the  hall  foot 
man,  "take  this  little  fellow  out  to  his  friends." 

Thomas,  the  discreet  footman,  took  little  Benny  by 
the  hand  to  lead  him  away.  But  Benny  caught  up  a 
fold  of  his  mother's  sapphire-velvet  dress,  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips  before  he  left  her  presence. 

Thomas  took  the  child  down  to  the  servants'  hall, 
where  old  Ruth — as  a  great  condescension  on  the  part 
of  the  servants,  who,  in  this  instance,  imitated  their 
masters,  was  permitted  to  sit  by  their  fire,  and  was  even 
solaced  with  beer  and  cold  meat  and  bread. 

"Tawe  me  home,  granny.  I  want  to  go  to  sleep,"  said 
little  Benny,  wearily,  and  misunderstanding  his  weari 
ness. 

"Come  along,  then,  my  precious,"  said  the  old  woman, 
who  had  her  own  reasons  for  escaping. 

The  kindly  footman  let  them  out  through  the  serv 
ants'  door. 

When  they  had  walked  a  long  distance  between 
Brunswick  terrace  and  the  wretched  alley  wherein  the 
house  stood  which  they  called  their  home,  old  Ruth  pro 
duced  from  her  pocket,  a  salt-cellar,  and  said : 

"Look  here,  dearie!  Here's  a  silver  salt-cellar  as  I 
hooked.  It's  wuth  at  least  two  pun  ten." 


THE  LOST  HEIR  185 

The  article  she  produced  was  but  a  poor  plated  thing 
belonging  to  the  servants'  dinner  service,  and  worth  at 
most  eighteen  pence,  but  she  thought  was  of  solid 
silver,  and  so  it  was  the  same  to  her,  so  far  as  influenc 
ing  her  movements  went. 

"Oh,  oh!  That  was  a  great  haul,  wasn't  it?"  ex 
claimed  little  Benny,  in  admiration. 

"Wasn't  it,  though?    Now,  what  did  you  hook?" 

"Nothink,"  said  the  boy,  feeling  very  compunctious. 

Well,  in  course,  yer  couldn't  a  had  the  chance  But 
now,  Benny,  dearie,  seeing  as  I  have  made  sich  a  great 
haul,  we  mustn't  stay  here  no  longer.  We  must  go  on 
the  tramp  this  werry  night,  or  the  bobbies  will  be  after 
us  all  along  o'  the  silver  salt-cellar!" 

Benny  accepted  every  word  his  granny  spoke,  as  hav 
ing  the  highest  authority  he  knew  anything  about.  And 
so  he  followed  her  into  the  house,  and  helped  her  to  tie 
up  their  two  bundles,  and  then  followed  her  out. 

They  took  the  old  turnpike  road,  and  started  on  their 
tramp  to  London. 

The  next  day  the  salt-cellar  was  missed.  But  it  was 
such  a  mere  trifle  that  nothing  was  said  about  it  The 
servants  clubbed  and  bought  another  one.  If  it  had  been 
of  solid  silver,  as  the  old  thief  supposed,  there  would 
have  been  more  stir. 

The  next  day  also  the  duchess,  who  could  not  get  over 
the  strange  interest  she  felt  in  the  boy,  caused  inquiries 
to  be  made  for  him.  In  vain.  The  boy  and  his  grand 
mother  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MISERY. 

It  was  on  a  dark,  cold  rainy  night  that  a  miserable 
old  beggar  woman  sat  crouching  in  a  corner,  near  one 
end  of  London  Bridge. 

She  drew  her  tattered  red  shawl  closely  over  her 
head  and  shoulders,  and  cramped  herself  all  up  in  a 


186  THE  LOST  HEIR 

heap,  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  passengers,  and  escape 
being  ordered  off  by  the  policeman  on  duty  there. 

And  so  she  sat  and  watched  through  the  deep  dark 
ness  and  the  driving  rain. 

And  so  she  had  sat  through  many  a  night  and 
watched  for  one  who  never  came,  for  one  whom  she 
longed  yet  dreaded  to  see. 

The  weather  was  so  dismal,  the  passengers  so  few, 
that  there  seemed  but  little  chance  for  the  fulfillment 
of  her  hope  that  night.  But  still  she  sat  in  the  deep 
darkness,  under  the  driving  rain,  and  moaned  and 
watched. 

Several  forms,  men,  women  and  children,  passed  her, 
singly  or  in  pairs,  or  in  groups,  at  longer  or  shorter  in 
tervals.  She  saw  them,  but  took  no  further  notice. 

At  length  a  girl,  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a  tat 
tered  cloak,  staggered  past. 

The  old  woman  tottered  to  her  feet  and  clutched  the 
cloak,  exclaiming: 

"Oh,  Rosy,  have  I  found  you  at  last?  Don't  go  for  to 
do  what  yer  a  thinking  on,  Rosy,  but  come  home  long  o' 
me." 

"What  do  yer  mean  by  stopping  me,  yer  drunken  old 
tramp?  Let  me  go !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  as,  with  a 
volley  of  blasphemy  and  obscenity,  she  twitched  herself 
out  of  the  old  woman's  grasp  and  went  on. 

"Mistook  me  'oman  ag'n,"  sighed  the  watcher,  as  she 
sunk  back  into  her  corner.  "Well,  and  she  means  to 
throw  herself  over,  let  her  do  it.  Happen  it  will  be  the 
best  think  she  can  do  for  herself.  Eh !  there's  my  girl 
now !"  she  added,  as  she  rose  again  to  her  feet  and  con 
fronted  a  young  girl  who  was  walking  slowly  toward 
her. 

"Rosy!  my  Rosy,  is  that  you?  Come  along  o'  me 
home,  Rosy,  and  don't  do  what  yer  a  thinking  on!" 

"I'm  not  your  Rosy,  poor  woman,"  replied  the  girl, 
in  a  sweet,  sad  tone,  and  she  threw  back  the  hood  of 
her  rusty  tweed  cloak  and  revealed  a  very  pale,  worn 
but  still  fair  young  face. 

"Not  my  Rosy?  No;  but  yer  somebody  else's  gal. 
And  yer  in  trouble  fit  to  break  yer  heart.  Now,  don't 


THE  LOST  HEIK  187 

go  for  to  do  what  yer  a  planning  on,  dearie.  Come 
home  'long  o'  me.  Maybe,  if  I  saves  you  this  night, 
the  good  Lord  will  save  my  Eosy.  Come  home  'long  o' 
me,  and  leave  off  thinking  o'  that." 

"You  mean  the  river?  Well,  I'll  not  deny  it's  a 
temptation  to  the  likes  o'  me;  but  I'm  not  thinking  o' 
that.  I'm  afraid  of  what  comes  after.  I  don't  want 
to  lose  my  soul.  I  want  to  repent  and  save  it,  in  the 
little  time  I  have  left." 

"Er,  then  come  along  wi'  me,"  pleaded  the  beggar. 

"Nay,"  said  the  young  tramp.  "I  am  going  to  my 
mother.  She  will  take  me  home,  an'  I  were  ten  times 
as  bad  as  I  am.  And  she  will  let  me  lie  down  and  die 
on  her  bed." 

"It  mayn't  come  to  that,  dearie.  But  yer  right  to  go 
to  yer  mother.  But  not  such  a  night  as  this,  gal. 
What  possessed  yer  to  start  for  a  tramp  sich  a  night  as 
this?" 

"I  was  turned  out  of  my  room.     I  was  homeless." 

"Then  come  home  long  o'  me  for  the  night,  dearie; 
and  start  fair  by  daylight,  in  the  morning.  I  am  going 
along  home  presently,  but  not  just  now.  I  must  watch 
for  Eosy  a  little  longer.  There,  don't  cry,  dearie.  Set 
down  alongside  o'  me  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

The  weeping  girl  sobbed  forth  her  thanks  and  sat 
down  under  the  shadow  of  the  old  beggar's  crouching 
form. 

"Now  tell  me  all  about  it,  dearie,  and  maybe  it  may 
make  me  forget  my  Eosy  for  a  minute.  Where  did 
you  come  from,  dearie?" 

"You  know  Patcham?" 

"No,  I  know  nothink  but  Lunnon." 

"Patcham  is  down  in  Sussex.  My  mother  is  a  labor 
er's  widow  there.  She  has  a  house  full  of  small  chil 
dren.  She  goes  out  to  work  by  the  day,  but  has  a  hard 
time  of  it  to  find  bread  for  so  many  little  mouths. 
That's  why  I  come  to  London  to  get  into  service.  I  got 
into  a  place  to  nurse  children.  One  day  when  I  took 
the  children  into  the  park,  I  met  the  Devil.  And  he 
spoke  to  me.  And  I  liked  his  looks  and  his  speech. 
And  after  that  I  met  him  very  often.  At  last  I  left 


188  THE  LOST  HEIR 

my  good  place  and  took  service  along  of  him — the 
Devil.  Now  what's  the  use  o'  my  telling  you  any 
more?  You  know.  Your  Rosy's  case,  you  see.  You 
haven't  told  me,  but  I  know  she  met  the  Devil  as  much 
as  if  you  had." 

"Aye,  aye,  that  she  did!  And  my  old  man  died  of 
shame  and  grief.  And  I  cursed  her,  I  did;  from  the 
bottom  of  my  heart,  I  did!  But  now  I  hear  she's  a 
houseless  wanderer  in  the  streets,  afeard  to  corne  home. 
And  I  know  how  that  ends.  And  my  heart  cries  out  to 
her,  for  she  was  my  daughter's  daughter.  And  I  sit 
myself  here,  night  after  night,  to  'fend  her  from  herself 
if  she  comes  this  way.  Oh,  gal,  gal!  trust  the  mother 
that  bore  you,  or  her  mother,  but  don't  take  to  the 
dreadful  river!"  whimpered  the  old  woman,  rocking 
herself  to  and  fro. 

"I  do  trust  my  mother,  and  will  never  try  the  river. 
I  trust  my  mother,  and  trust  One  my  guilty  lips  must 
not  name ;  but  He  knows  my  sin  has  broken  my  heart, 
and  He  will  have  mercy.  I  am  going  home  to  die. 
Mother  will  let  me  lie  down  on  her  bed,  and  she  will 
send  for  the  good  curate  who  taught  me  in  the  Sunday- 
school  years  ago.  And  he  will  help  me  to  crawl  back 
to  the  foot  of  the  cross,  where  is  forgiveness  and  salva 
tion  even  for  me.  Then  there  will  be  a  new  grave  in 
the  old  churchyard.  And  mother  will  tell  Lucy — that's 
my  next  sister — how  sin  leads  to  death !  But  mother's 
heart  will  be  at  rest,  like  mine !" 

There  was  a  tone  of  sorrow,  humility  and  resigna 
tion  in  the  girl's  manner  that  was  very  touching. 

"I  wish  yer  wouldn't  talk  so,  dearie.  Yer  werry 
young  to  die,"  moaned  the  old  woman. 

"But,  oh !  it  is  so  sweet  to  think  of  going  home  and 
lying  down  on  mother's  bed  to  die,  to  rest  after  all  the 
black  trouble.  It  is  so  much  better  than  I  deserve. 
But  He  is  good." 

"Aye,  aye,  dearie!  So  Rachel  Wood  says.  I  knows 
nothink  about  it.  I  never  saw  a  Sunday-schooler;  no, 
nor  likewise  a  churchgoer.  I  wasn't Who's  them?" 

This  last  question  related  to  two  figures  seen  ap- 


THE  LOST  HEIR  189 

preaching.     When  they  drew  nearer,  the  strange  girl, 
peering  through  the  darkness,  answered: 

"It  is  an  old  woman  and  a  little  boy." 

And  at  this  moment  the  travelers,  for  such  they 
seemed,  drew  very  near;  and  the  boy,  full  of  pity  for 
those  whom  he  considered  homeless  beggars,  left  the 
woman's  side  and  went  up  to  them  and  asked- 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Little  Benny,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  raising  her 
head,  and  recognizing  the  child's  voice. 

"Why,  it's  Missus  Flowers,  granny !"  he  cried  to  his 
companion — "it's  Missus  Flowers  and  Rosy!" 

"No,  it  an't  Rosy,  little  Benny.  I  wish  it  was!" 
sighed  the  old  woman. 

"An't  it,  though?  How's  Suzy,  then,  Missus  Flow 
ers?" 

"I  don't  know,  Benny.  I  don't  live  there  now.  I 
couldn't  pay  the  rent  for  that  big  room ;  so  I've  got  a 
front  room  on  the  ground  floor,  down  in  Wellesley 
Court.  Is  that  your  granny  with  you,  Benny?" 

"Yes,  Missus  Flowers." 

"Come  here,  Ruth  Drug,  and  sit  down  alongside  o> 
me  to  rest  We  quarreled  when  we  parted,  so  we  did, 
Ruth ;  but  don't  you  bear  no  malice.  I  don't  bear  none 
to  you,  for  my  heart's  broke  with  losing  my  old  man 
and  my  gals  and  being  all  alone  in  the  world.  Come, 
neighbor,  and  sit  down  and  rest." 

"I  don't  care  if  I  do.  I  don't  bear  no  ill  will,  I  thank 
my  goodness,"  graciously  replied  old  Ruth,  who  cer 
tainly  never  had  the  slightest  just  cause  of  offense 
against  her  poor  old  neighbor. 

"That's  good.  Now,  I've  got  a  thimbleful  o'  gin  in 
my  bottle,  and  would  yer  like  it  to  warm  yer,  this  dis 
mal  night?"  kindly  inquired  the  old  woman. 

"Aye,  for  I'm  just  stiff  and  sore  and  tired,  and . 

Thanky,"  said  old  Ruth,  as  she  took  the  offered  bottle 
and  put  it  to  her  lips. 

"I  thought  yer  went  to  Brighting,  Ruth?" 

"So  I  did;  but  the  sea  air  didn't  agree  wi'  us,  dear 
so  we  just  tramped  back." 

"And  got  in  to-night?" 


190  THE  LO*T  HEIR 

'•Just.  We  walked  from  Croyden  to-day,  and  I'm 
dead  beat.  Has  Tony  Brice,  my  son-in-law,  got  out  o' 
prison  ;•  - 

"Yes :  and  he  come  home  and  sold  all  the  furniture  in 
his  room,  and  yours,  too:  and  he  paid  the  rent  and 
vent  away.  I  don't  know  wheiv 

at — what  did  you  say?    What  did  he  do?"  in 
quired  old  Ruth,  aghast. 

Granny  Flowers  repeated  her  story. 

"And  so  there  an't  nothink.  not  even  a  bed  left  in 
;;er  of  the  roon 

.  nor  nothink.  Which  the  rooms  theirselves  is 
let  out  to  other  parties :  like  mine  is,  too,  for  I  couldn't 
pay  the  rent,  and  I  had  to  leave." 

"Sold  all  my  gal's  furnitur.  and  run  away  with  the 

money!  the "     Here  old  Ruth  discharged  a  volley 

of  profanity  utterly  unreportable. 

"He  didn't  run  away  with  the  money  .Ruth.  He  paid 
the  rent,  and  I  reckon  there  wasn't  much  left.  And  he 
went  away.  I  don't  know  wheres.  But  don't  fret, 
Ruth  Drug.  Come  along  home  with  me  by  and  bye. 
I've  a  room  in  Wel's'ly  Court.  I  used  to  have  two 
bed*,  yer  fao 

-sus  Flowers.  I  can  pay  for  my  lodging.  I  thank 
rer  kindly.*'  replied  the  tramp,  confident  in  the  imagi 
nary  possession  of  a  heavy  salt-cellar,  as  well  as  in  a 
matter  of  twenty-three  or  four  shillings  in  money. 
4*But  I'll  come  to  yer  house  all  the  same,  thank  yer; 
and  well  have  summat  hot  for  supper." 

"Aye,  that'll  be  good!*'  chuckled  Granny  Flowers, 
smacking  her  lips,  for  in  all  her  troubles,  she  had  not 
lost  her  keen  relish  for  "something  good  to  eat/' 

"Well,  then,  now  I'm  rested,  what  are  we  waiting 
for?"  demanded  old  Ruth. 

r  my  poor,  lost  gal!  Eh!  I  cursed  her  bitter 
that  black  day  she  went  wrong  and  broke  the  poor  old 
man's  heart!  But  I  heerd  lately  as  she  were  wander 
ing  about  the  street  homeless,  because  she  is  afeard  to 
come.  And  I'm  afeard  of  her  coming  to  the  river. 
And  here  I  come  o'  nights  to  watch  for  her." 


THE  LOST  HEIK  191 

"m5d  how  many  niShts  nave  you  been  doing  this?" 
This  one  makes  seven." 

''And  how  many  more  do  you  mean  to  watch?" 
Lord  knows— I  don't;  till  I  find  her.     That's  all  I 


can  say.    Eosy! 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

DESPAIR. 


,  mistake  this  time-    The  Prophecy  of 

old  mother's  soul  was  fulfilled.     While  they  had 

&  *  SHght  female  form  had  stole/  past 
brf»  *apkn«*  and  climl>ed  to  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge.  Just  as  she  was  preparing  for  the  fatal  plunge, 
the  old  woman  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  form.  Reco- 
2ft£?*£  »»?*  ™ther  than  by  sight,  she  sprang 
and  caught  her  skirts  and  called  aloud  her  name 

fdl  back 


But  several  hands  extended  broke  her  fall,  and  bore 
her  fainting  form  to  the  sheltered  corner  of  the  bridge 
where  the  strange  girl  supported  it  in  her  arms  while 


as 


l™Yh,T  the  miserable  wanderer  opened  her  eves  and 
ooked  around  and  saw  who  was  about  her,  she  burst 
into  hystencal  sobs  and  tears,  and  cried  out- 


deHy  °r^  F—  ,  who,  ten- 


"Because  I  loved  yer,  dearie  " 


sti11  more  trOTble  on  you." 


as  Tr  deat     wo  1H  D°    r°ue  on  me 

"nift     f  i  Would  be'  Rosy'  my  "ttle  Rosy!" 

waited  fourth  th  W-1Ch  I  arn]  What  a  w™*^  I  a«!" 
«~  ^  S'  '  COYermg  her  face  with  h^  hands. 
are  my  own  poor,  pretty  little  Kosy!  Yer  all 


192  THE  LOST  HEIR 

I've  got  left  in  this  world.  And  an't  I  all  you've  got, 
too?  Tell  me  that." 

"Yes,  you  are!  you  are!  and  I  don't  deserve  to  have 
you !"  sobbed  the  girl,  stealing  her  arm  around  the  old 
woman's  neck. 

"Well,  never  mind,  dearie.  You  and  me'll  let  by 
gones  all  be  bygones  now.  And  we'll  go  home  and  live 
together,  and  be  happy,"  said  Granny  Flowers,  sooth 
ingly. 

"I  heard  about  poor  old  grandfather's  death,  and  all 
the  dreadful  things  that  happened  after  I  had  gone. 
Oh,  it  was  so  horrible!  It  helped  to  drive  me  to  that 
deed  you  prevented !"  sobbed  the  girl. 

"Don't  talk  about  that  now,  dearie.  It  can't  be 
helped  now.  And  talking  about  it  won't  do  no  good, 
but  will  only  make  you  worse.  Come  home,  along  o' 
me.  And  you  and  me'll  live  together,  and  be  happy 
again." 

"Ah !  how  can  we  ever  be  happy  again,  after  all  that 
has  passed?" 

"I  mean  peaceful,  honey,  peaceful.  I  didn't  just 
mean  quite  happy.  I  suppose  we  can't  be  quite  happy 
no  more,  but  we  can  love  one  another  and  be  peaceful." 

"And  I'll  hook  tea  and  sugar  for  you,  Rosy!  Don't 
cry!"  whispered  little  Benny,  putting  his  small  hand 
on  her  forehead. 

"Come,  now;  try  to  stand  up  and  walk,  and  we  will 
help  you  home,"  said  Granny  Flowers,  trying  to  assist 
Rose  to  her  feet. 

"Is  the  young  woman  drunk?"  inquired  a  policeman, 
coming  up. 

"No,"  exclaimed  Ruth  Drug.  "Can't  you  see  for  yer- 
self  as  she's  only  sick  and  weak,  ver  purblind,  pig 
headed " 

What  further  Ruth  said  need  not  be  set  down  here. 

"I  can  walk  well  enough,"  said  Rose,  stumbling  up. 

"And  now  who's  this  other  young  'oman?"  inquired 
Ruth  Drug,  referring  to  the  strange  girl,  who  now 
joined  their  party  as  if  she  belonged  to  it. 

"Oh!  a  friend  of  mine,  as  is  comin'  home  to  stay  all 
night  with  me,"  answered  Granny  Flowers. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  193 

"My  name  is  Mary  Field,"  put  in  the  girl. 

"Be  yer  a-goin'  to  set  up  a  lodging-house?"  sarcasti 
cally  inquired  old  Ruth. 

"Happen  I  may,"  coolly  replied  Granny  Flowers,  as 
she  led  the  way  to  her  humble  home. 

Her  home  was  in  a  poor  courtyard  by  the  waterside. 
Her  room  contained  two  small  beds,  a  rickety  table, 
three  crippled  chairs,  a  rusty  little  stove,  and  a  tiny 
corner  cupboard  half  filled  with  some  cracked  crockery 
ware,  a  very  few  cooking  utensils,  and  about  a  couple 
of  handfuls  of  coals  and  chips. 

Old  Ruth  Drug  went  out  to  the  nearest  cookshop  to 
buy  the  materials  for  the  promised  hot  supper. 

While  she  was  gone,  Granny  Flowers  lit  a  candle  and 
kindled  a  fire. 

When  firelight  and  candlelight  fell  upon  the  forms  of 
the  two  girls,  even  old  Granny  Flowers,  used  as  she 
was  to  the  sight  of  misery,  shuddered  to  see  what 
wrecks  they  had  become. 

"Wretches,"  they  had  called  themselves,  in  their  bit 
ter  self-accusation.  Wrecks  they  were.  The  wordsr 
in  their  cases  at  least,  were  synonyms. 

Rosy's  one  beautiful  red  and  white  complexion  war 
now  dark  and  sallow;  her  lustrous  black  hair  was  rusty 
and  tangled;  her  laughing  bright  eyes  were  dimmed 
and  sunken. 

"And  she  so  young!"  moaned  the  old  grandmother  to 
herself,  as  she  gazed  upon  this  ruin  of  her  child. 

The  other  "wreck"  was  scarcely  less  forlorn  in  as 
pect.  Once  evidently  a  fresh  and  blooming  country 
girl,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  and  bright  complexioned, 
she  was  now  scarcely  more  than  skin  and  bone,  a 
walking  skeleton,  with  a  deathly  white  face. 

"She  told  the  truth,  poor  dearie!  She  is  going  home 
to  die,  if  she  be  even  so  lucky  as  to  hold  out  to  get 
there,"  sighed  old  Mrs.  Flowers,  as  she  looked  at  her. 

Then  she  made  the  two  girls  come  and  sit  close  to  the 
fire,  while  she  put  the  kettle  on  to  make  tea  for  them. 

Presently  old  Ruth  came  back,  bringing  a  basket, 
from  which  she  produced,  first  a  plate  full  of  fried  liver 
and  bac«^  which  she  covered  up  and  set  upon  the  hob 


194  THE  LOST  HEIR 

to  be  kept  hot,  next  a  paper  full  of  rolls,  a  pat  of  butter 
and  a  bottle  of  rum,  all  of  which  she  placed  upon  the 
rickety  old  table. 

She" was  followed  by  little  Benny,  his  fair  face  beam 
ing  with  benevolence  and  satisfaction — nay,  tri 
umph,  as  he  went  to  Rosy  and  put  two  oranges  in  her 
lap,  whispering: 

"Here,  Kosy ;  don't  cry  no  more.  I  hooked  these  'ere 
for  you  and  t'other  poor  gal.  I  did  it  sharp,  I  tell  you, 
while  granny  was  a-buying  of  the  rum." 

Now,  this  girl  knew  perfectly  well  that  this  child  had 
done  wrong,  and  done  so  in  total  ignorance  of  the 
wrong.  Yet  she  did  not  set  him  right.  She  thought 
his  act  a  trifle.  Her  feverish  palate  thirsted  for  the 
forbidden  fruit,  and  she  took  it  and  smiled.  And  then 
she  put  her  arms  around  the  boy  and  drew  him  to  her 
bosom,  and  kissed  him  fondly,  and  said  he  was  "a  good 
boy — such  a  dear,  kind,  good  boy!"  and  she  "loved" 
him. 

"Is  it  good,  Rosy?  Do  you  like  it?  Is  it  good  and 
sweet?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  darling ;  but  not  so  good  and  sweet  as  you  are," 
said  Rose,  squeezing  him  affectionately. 

"Now,  mind,  I'll  hook  you  another  one  to-morrow. 
Bless  you,  I  an't  afraid,"  said  the  delighted  child. 

Before  Rose  could  reply  Granny  Flowers  called  them 
to  their  supper,  which  was  now  steaming  on  the  table. 

The  two  old  women,  the  two  girls  and  the  boy  gath 
ered  around  the  humble  board. 

The  two  old  women  did  full  justice  to  the  meal. 

Rose  was  more  thirsty  than  hungry,  so  she  drank  a 
great  deal  of  tea,  and  ate  but  little. 

Mary  Field,  on  the  contrary,  with  the  ravenous  appe 
tite  that  distinguished  some  types  of  consumption,  fed 
very  heartily. 

And  after  supper,  when  old  Ruth  pointed  out  to  her 
the  bed  on  which  she  was  to  rest,  she  was  the  first  to  lie 
down  and  go  to  sleep. 

The  others  sat  up  until  they  had  finished  the  bottle 
of  rum,  and  t^n  they,  too,  followed  her  example. 

In  the  morning  old  Ruth  Drug  received  and  accepted 


THE  LOST  HEIR  195 

a  proposition  from  Granny  Flowers  to  the  effect  that 
the  two  should  join  housekeeping  and  live  together  in 
that  little  room,  Ruth  and  Benny  occupying  one  bed, 
while  Granny  Flowers  and  Rosy  used  the  other.  They 
were  to  divide  expenses ;  and  little  Benny,  pleased  with 
the  arrangement,  was  to  beg  and  steal  for  them  both. 

That  same  morning,  after  breakfast,  Mary  Fields 
prepared  for  her  foot  journey  to  Patcham. 

The  old  women  helped  her  from  their  slender  store. 
They  made  her  up  a  little  bundle  of  provisions. 

Old  Granny  Flowers  had  a  great  deal  of  pity  in  her 
nature,  as  may  have  been  seen. 

And  even  old  Ruth  Drug,  abominable  old  wretch  that 
she  was,  had,  away  down  in  some  recess  of  her  dried- 
up  bosom,  some  little  drop  of  the  milk  of  human  kind 
ness  left.  So  even  she  gave  the  gal  a  shilling,  out  of 
the  one  and  twenty  she  had  left. 

And  so  the  traveler  departed. 

And  now,  if  you  care  to  hear  any  more  about  this 
poor  girl,  type  of  one  class  as  she  also  was,  I  have  only 
to  tell  you  that  she  lived  to  reach  her  home,  but  not 
much  longer. 

There  the  previsions  of  her  soul  were  realized.  She 
died  peacefully  in  her  mother's  arms,  and  was  buried  in 
the  old  churchyard. 

And  now  I  have  another  death  to  record  before  I 
close  this  chapter — a  death  that  no  one  will  regret. 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  the  old  women  had 
joined  housekeeping,  old  Ruth  Drug  took  from  her  wal 
let  that  electro-plated  salt-cellar  which  she  had  stolen 
from  the  table  of  the  servants'  hall,  in  the  Duke  of 
Cheviot's  house,  on  Brunswick  terrace,  Brighton. 

Still  fondly  believing  it  to  be  of  solid  silver,  and 
worth  two  guineas  at  the  very  least,  she  concealed  it  in 
her  bosom  and  sallied  forth  to  the  den  of  a  friend  of 
hers. 

He  was  a  gentleman  of  the  Jewish  persuasion,  and 
also  a  receiver  of  goods  and  melter  of  metals.  He 
bought  whatever  of  plate  or  jewels  that  was  offered 
him,  asking  no  questions — stipulating  only  that  they 


196  THE  LOST  HEIR 

should  take  for  their  articles  whatever  he  offered  in  re 
turn. 

When  old  Ruth  offered  her  stolen  salt-cellar  for  sale 
he  informed  her  that  it  was  not  silver,  but  electro 
plate,  worth  at  second-hand  about  sixpence. 

Whereupon  old  Ruth,  in  her  disappointment,  went 
borne,  drank  a  quart  of  gin,  went  to  sleep,  and  the  next 
morning  was  found  dead  in  her  bed. 

The  parish  doctor,  called  in  haste,  pronounced  the 
death  to  have  ensued  from  apoplexy,  and  sent  a  notice 
to  the  parish  authorities.  And  the  third  day  there 
after  old  Ruth  Drug  was  buried  at  the  parish's  cost. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 


Little  Benny  mourned  for  the  horrible  old  witch  who 
had  misused  and  misled  him — mourned  for  her  as  if  she 
had  been  the  best,  wisest  and  most  affectionate  of 
mothers,  and  for  a  long  time  he  refused  to  be  com 
forted. 

But  Rose  caressed  and  petted  him  more  than  he  had 
ever  been  petted  and  caressed  in  his  life. 

And  Rose  and  her  old  grandmother  were  poorer  and 
more  destitute  than  ever;  and  Rose  was  ill,  as  every 
one  could  see,  and  her  granny,  was  rapidly  failing  with 
old  age.  They  could  neither  of  them  earn  anything  for 
themselves.  They  were  often  cold  and  hungry,  with 
out  the  means  of  procuring  food  or  fuel. 

So  at  length  little  Benny  aroused  himself  from  his 
selfish  indulgence  in  sorrow,  and  went  forth  to  beg  and 
steal  for  them,  as  he  had  done  for  old  Ruth  Drug. 

He  enjoyed  more  liberty  now  than  he  had  ever  had  in 
his  little  life  before. 

And  the  first  use  he  made  of  it  was  to  visit  the  house 
in  Junk  lane  and  inquire  after  his  little  playmate,  Suzy 
Juniper. 

He  found  no  one  that  he  knew  left  in  the  house  ex- 


THE  LOST  HEIK  197 

cept  Moses,  the  pawnbroker,  and  Mrs.  Kempton,  the 
old-clothes  vender,  whose  shops  were  on  the  ground 
floor  front. 

He  inquired  of  Mrs.  Kempton,  whom  he  found  sitting 
behind  her  counter  in  a  perfect  grove  of  dangling 
clothes,  of  the  friends  he  had  left  behind  him  when  he 
tramped  with  his  granny  to  Brighton. 

And  he  was  told  that  his  stepfather,  Tony  Brice,  had 
sold  out  and  gone  to  parts  unknown ;  that  the  Junipers 
had  moved  away  to  a  house  near  the  theatre,  where  lit- 
tile  Suzy  was  now  earning  a  living  for  the  whole  fam 
ily;  that  her  daughter,  Mary  Kempton,  was  at  service 
with  a  lady  at  Brighton,  but  that  they  were  all  to  come 
up  to  town  early  in  February,  when  all  the  other  fine 
folks  came. 

"And  please,  where  is  Miss  Kachel  Wood?"  inquired 
little  Benny,  feeling  very  much  desolated  by  this  exo 
dus  of  his  old  friends,  and  hoping  that  this  one  at  least 
might  be  left. 

"Oh,  Miss  Eachel  has  her  home  there  still,  but  she  is 
now  engaged  by  the  week  making  up  linen  for  a  young 
couple  as  is  going  to  housekeeping;  and  so  she  only 
comes  home  Saturday  nights,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton. 

"And  this  is  Monday,  and  I  can't  see  her  for  most  a 
week !"  said  the  child,  in  a  disappointed  tone. 

"But  where's  your  granny,  Benny?"  at  length  in 
quired  Mrs.  Kempton. 

"Lor'!  don't  you  know?  Poor  granny's  dead!  She's 
been  dead  these  five  days !"  cried  the  child,  bursting  in 
to  tears  and  weeping  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 

"There,  don't  cry  so  hard,  poor  little  fellow.  Come  in 
and  sit  down,  and  tell  me  all  about  it,"  said  the  kind- 
hearted  creature,  leading  the  boy  into  the  shabby  back 
parlor,  all  hung  ar<5und,  like  a  shop,  with  dangling 
dresses. 

She  gave  him  a  seat  and  a  glass  of  beer,  and  then  re 
peated  her  request  to  hear  "all  about  it." 

And  Benny  told  her  of  their  return  from  Brighton* 
and  their  arrival  in  London  on  that  rainy  night,  and 
their  meeting  with  Granny  Flowers  and  Rosy  and  the 
other  girl  on  the  bridge,  and  their  joining  housekeep- 


198  THE  LOST  HEIR 

ing  with  old  Mrs.  Flowers  and  Rosy  in  Wellesley  Court ; 
and  finally,  of  his  granny  being  found  dead  in  her  bed, 
and  being  buried  by  the  parish. 

"Well,  there,  then,  don't  cry  no  more.  Your  poor 
old  granny  is  better  off!"  said  Mrs.  Kempton,  who 
doubted  her  own  assertion  very  much,  but  considered 
it  the  proper  formula,  and  went  through  it. 

And  Benny  cried  all  the  more,  after  the  manner  of 
mourners,  because  he  was  desired  not  to  do  so. 

At  length  he  looked  up  and  inquired : 

Please,  Mrs.  Kempton,  have  you  heard  anything 
about  my  poor  mammy?" 

"Not  a  word,  Benny.  But  you  know  the  gentlefolks 
did  say,  when  she  was  sent  there,  as  they  treated  the 
patients  very  well." 

Benny  sighed. 

"And  now  I  tell  you  what,  my  boy,  if  you  ha'n't  got 
no  other  place  to  go  to,  just  you  stop  here  long  o'  me.  I 
shan't  begrudge  you  a  mouthful  o'  wittels,  and  a  shake 
down  among  my  own  children,  till  I  can  get  a  place  for 
you;  which  the  dear  knows  as  they  may  be  orphints 
some  of  these  days.  So  hang  up  your  hat,  my  poor  lit 
tle  man,  and  make  yourself  at  home,"  said  the  tender 
hearted  mother. 

"Thanky,  ma'am,  I  would  like  to,  but  I  mustn't,"  said 
the  little  fellow,  regretfully. 

"Mustn't,  Benny?  Why?  You're  not  afraid  of 
father?"  she  said,  referring  to  her  husband. 

"Father's  the  softest-hearted  man  as  ever  you  see. 
He  wouldn't  turn  a  dog  out,  much  less  a  orphint  boy." 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am,  I  ain't  afraid  o'  Mr.  Kempton.  I'm 
too  fond  o'  he  for  that.  But  it's  jes  this  way,  ma'am. 
Granny  Flowers  and  Rosy.  Granny,  she's  so  old,  she's 
hardly  able  to  stir  now.  She  seems  like  she  give  out  all 
of  a  suddint,  soon's  ever  she  found  Rosy,  and  fotch  her 
home.  And  she  can't  do  nothink  for  herself.  And  Rosy, 
she's  awful  sick,  and  can't  do  nothink  for  herself 
neither.  And  they  hasn't  nobody  to  look  out  for  'em 
now  but  me.  And  I  must  stay  by  'em,  and  look  out 
for  'em,"  Benny  explained. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  199 

"You,  poor  child!  What  can  you  do?"  inquired  the 
woman. 

"Oh,  lots!  I  keeps  'em  in  things!  And  when  I  get 
a  big  man,  big  enough  to  crack  a  crib,  I'll  perwide  for 
'em  handsome,"  said  Benny,  taking  up  his  little  hat  to 
go  away. 

"Well,  my  little  fellow,  when  you  want  a  home  or  a 
friend,  come  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton. 

Little  Benny  pulled  his  forelock  and  thanked  her,  and 
then  went  away  to  the  Temple  of  Thespis  to  try  to  find 
his  playmate  Suzy. 

This  fair-faced,  sweet-voiced  boy  seldom  got  himself 
snubbed,  even  by  irritable  officials.  And  so,  when  he 
civilly  inquired  of  the  box-keeper  where  little  Miss  Ju 
niper,  the  "Infant  Wonder,"  was,  he  was  told  that  she 
had  just  been  taken  home  from  rehearsal.  And  when 
he  further  ventured  to  inquire  where  she  lived,  please, 
sir,  he  received  full  directions  to  her  abode,  which  was 
very  near  at  hand. 

He  found  Suzy's  family — they  were  Suzy's  family 
now,  for  she  supported  them  all — established  in  two 
comfortable  rooms  in  a  house  in  the  large  court  at  the 
back  of  the  Thespian  Temple. 

He  found  little  Suzy  up  to  her  eyes  in  business,  and 
half  wild  with  excitement. 

The  play  of  the  evening  was  to  be  the  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream." 

Suzy  was  to  play  the  part  of  "Titania,  Queen  of  the 
Fairies." 

And  she  was  to  wear  a  dress  of  silver  gauze  spangled 
with  silver  stars,  and  a  crown  of  silver  spangled  with 
crystals,  and  silver  slippers,  and  to  carry  a  silver  scep 
tre  in  her  hand.  And  her  splendid  dress  was  quite 
ready,  and  her  part  was  perfectly  committed  to  mem 
ory. 

She  had  been  studying  it  for  a  week  and  rehearsing 
it  every  forenoon,  and  she  felt  perfectly  confident  of 
her  success. 

"And,  oh,  Benny,  if  you  could  only  play  King  Obe- 
ron  to  my  Queen  Titania,  I  should  be  perfectly  happy! 
And  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  go  on  the  stage  and  be  a 


£00  THE  LOST  HEIR 

boy  'Infant  Wonder/  same  as  I'm  a  girl,  for  you're  a 
heap  clever'n  I  am/'  Suzy  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm. 

"No,  I  an't,  Suzy.  I  an't  clever.  But  when  I  git  a 
big  man  I'll  do  something  for  you  to  make  a  fortin,  so 
you  needn't  go  on  no  stage  no  more." 

"Oh,  but  I  like  it!"  broke  in  Suzy  with  animation; 
"it's  just  splendid!  And  mammy  says  when  I  git  a 
big  lady,  I  shall  make  heaps  and  heaps  of  money,  and 
may  marry  any  lord  I  like !  But  I  don't  want  no  lords, 
Benny." 

"No  more  do  I,  "Suzy." 

"I  only  want  you,  Benny !"  frankly  confessed  the  lit 
tle  girl. 

"And  so  do  I  you,  Suzy,"  as  frankly  responded 
Benny. 

"And  when  I  get  a  big  lady,  and  makes  heaps  of 
money,  I  will  buy  a  theatre  of  my  own,  Benny,  and  you 
shall  be  manager  and  shall  play  just  what  parts  you 
like;  and  won't  that  be  nice?" 

"Slap  up!"  said  Benny. 

And  he  could  have  staid  all  the  afternoon  talking 
with  Suzy,  but  that  he  remembered  poor  old  Granny 
Flowers  and  Rosy,  cold  and  hungry,  in  their  miserable 
court,  waiting  for  him  to  bring  them  the  means  of  get 
ting  something  to  eat. 

And  so  he  got  up  to  go  away. 

"You  and  Suzy  have  been  letting  of  your  tongues  run 
so  fast,  Benny,  as  I  haven't  had  no  chance  to  ask  after 
your  granny.  How  is  the  old  'oman,  Benny?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Juniper. 

"Oh!  don't  you  know?  Nobody  don't  know,  seems 
to  me,  till  I  tell  'em,"  said  Benny,  sitting  down  again 
and  bursting  into  tears. 

And  then  he  told  his  story,  and  had  his  cry  all  over 
-again. 

And  when  he  was  cross-questioned  he  told  all  about 
Granny  Flowers  and  Rosy's  illness  and  destitution,  and 
how  he  meant  to  stay  with  them  and  take  care  of  them. 

"Dear  me!  And  you  are  all  they  have  got  to  look 
to?"  sympathetically  inquired  Mrs.  Juniper. 


THE  LOST  HEIK  201 

"Yes ;  and  I'll  take  care  on  'em,  too,"  replied  Benny, 
valiantly. 

''And  if  you  were  an  'Infant  Wonder,'  you  could  do 
it!  And  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  be  an  'Infant  Won 
der'  as  well  as  me,  and  play  Oberon  to  my  Titania," 
said  Suzy. 

"I  ha'n't  the  gift,  Suzy.  I  wish  I  had!"  humbly  re 
sponded  Benny. 

"Dear  me!  And  they're  both  sick,  and  an't  got  no 
tea,  nor  sugar,  nor  bread,  no  nothink  in  the  house !"  re 
peated  Mrs.  Juniper. 

No,  they  ha'n't.  But  don't  fret  about  that,  ma'am! 
I'll  be  sure  to  get  something  for  'em  afore  I  go  home.  I 
allus  does — somehow.  I  an't  never  failed  'em  yet.  And 
never  will.  You'll  see!"  said  the  boy,  rising  and  tak 
ing  up  his  hat. 

Once  more  he  paused  and  turned  his  hat  round  and 
round,  and  then  hesitatingly  inquired : 

''You  ha'nt  hearn  no  news  of  my  poor  mammy,  have 
frou.  Miss  Juniper?" 

/     "Yes,  Benny,  I'm  happy  to  say,  I  have.     Juniper  and 

/  me  went  out  to  see  her  on  the  regular  visiting  day — 

/   which  once  a  month  it  is,  Benny.     And  I'll  take  you 

/   there  next  month  myself.     And  she's  as  comfortable  as 

/    she  can  be,  Benny.     She's  a  deal  more  comfortabler  nor 

/     ever  she  was  in  her  born  days  before.     Why,  it's  a  hea- 

vingly  place  is  Hanwell,  Benny!  with  fruit  trees  and 

forty-piannies,  and  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  plenty 

to  eat  and  dri.nk,  and  dancing  every  week,  and  good 

clothes  to  wear,  and  heverythink  as  you  could  mention, 

\    and  a  chappil  to  go  to  church  in,  and  a  bathroom  and 

\  heverythink!" 

^     "Is  mammy  happy?"  plaintively  inquired  Benny. 

"If  she  an't,  it's  her  own  fault.  There's  heverythink 
to  make  her  so." 

41 1  wish  she  hadn't  a  done  it,  though,"  murmured 
Benny,  turning  pale  at  the  memory  of  the  murder. 

She  wasn't  herself  when  she  done  it,  or  she  wouldn't 
a  done  it.  Everybody  knows  that.  Because  if  they 
had  a  thought  she'd  a  been  herself  when  she  done  it, 
they  never  would  a  sent  her  to  sich  a  heavingly  place  as 


202  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Hanwell,  where  they  have  peach-trees  and  piany-fortes 
and  geese  and  lectur'  rooms  and  heverythink  as  yer 
heart  could  desire.  I'll  take  you  there  next  wisiting 
day,  and  you  shall  see  for  yourself,  Benny." 

"Thanky,  ma'am.  But  did  mammy  send  me  any 
word,  please?" 

"N-no,  Benny;  but  then,  you  see,  we  had  told  her  as 
you  and  the  old  'oman  was  gone  upon  a  tramp  to 
Brighting.  And  so  I  s'pose  she  didn't  think  as  we'd 
see  you  so  soon.  But  never  mind,  Benny;  next  wisiting 
day  I'll  be  sure  to  take  you  there  to  see  her,  you  know." 

"Thanky,  ma'am,"  answered  the  child,  setting  his  lit 
tle  hat  upon  his  head. 

"Stop  a  bit,  my  boy.  You  needn't  go  yet.  I  must 
make  up  a  little  parcel  for  poor  old  Mrs.  Flowers.  I 
allus  did  like  the  poor  old  body.  And,  lor' !  why,  I  can 
afford  to  help  a  friend  in  need  now!  Suzy's  getting 
two  guineas  a  week  at  the  Thespian,  besides  what  the 
other  children  can  earn  when  they  go  on  as  supes  once 
in  a  while." 

As  Mrs.  Juniper  spoke,  she  busied  herself  with  mak 
ing  up  a  small  parcel  of  tea,  one  ditto  of  sugar,  one  of 
sliced  bacon,  and  one  of  rolls.  She  tied  them  all  up  in 
an  old  handkerchief  and  gave  them  to  the  child,  say 
ing: 

"Now,  Benny,  that  handkerchief  an't  worth  much ;  but 
you  can  give  it  to  Granny  Flowers,  with  all  the  rest 
what's  in  it.  And  give  my  love  to  her,  and  tell  her  as 
I'm  sorry  to  hear  she's  ill.  And  likewise  tell  Rosy  as 
I'm  glad  to  hear  she's  come  back  home.  Which  I  hope 
now  she'll  mend  her  ways.  Now,  don't  forget  to  tell 
her  that,  Benny ;  as  I  hope  she'll  mend  her  ways." 

"No,  ma'am,  I'll  not  forget.  Thanky,  ma'am,"  said 
little  Benny,  as  he  took  up  his  bundle  and  went  out. 

And  for  that  day  at  least  the  child  was  saved  from 
the  sin  of  stealing  and  the  shame  of  begging. 

But  for  the  days  that  followed,  in  that  bitter  cold 
winter  weather! 


THE  LOST  HEIR  203 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

EACH  EL  WOOD  IS  STARTLED. 

Parliament  met  as  usual,  early  in  February.  The 
'beaumonde  returned  to  town.  The  Court  Journal, 
Morning  Post  and  other  papers  chronicled,  among  oth 
ers,  the  following  arrivals: 

The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Cheviot,  at  Cheviot  House,  Picca 
dilly. 

The  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of  Shetland,  at  Park  Lane. 

The  Earl  and  Countess  of  Ornoch,  at  Westburne  Terrace. 

The  Countess  Dowager  of  Ornoch  and  Lady  Katherine 
Moray,  of  South  Audley  street. 

Mr.  and  Lady  Margaret  Elphinstone,  in  Brooke  street. 

The  General  and  Mrs.  Chimboza,  in  Hill  street. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Melliss,  Charles  street. 

Others  came  to  town,  whose  arrivals  were  nowhere 
chronicled.  Among  the  latter  was  Rachel  Wood,  the 
poor  seamstress. 

She  had  been  engaged  to  sew  by  the  week  with  a  fam 
ily  down  in  Sussex,  whose  married  daughter  was  going 
to  housekeeping. 

She  had  bargained  to  be  allowed  to  return  home 
every  Saturday  night,  for  the  sake  of  attending  her  own 
church  on  Sunday. 

But  it  happened  that  the  weather  became  so  very 
severe,  and  the  family  she  served  was  so  kind,  that  she 
did  not  once  avail  herself  of  her  privilege  of  returning 
to  town  once  a  week.  On  the  contrary,  she  considered 
it  a  privilege  to  remain  with  her  friends  in  the  country 
until  her  engagement  with  them  was  completed. 

Then  she  returned  home,  "for  good." 

Rachel  Wood  had  scarcely  rekindled  her  fire  in  the 
cold  grate  of  her  room,  in  the  house  at  Junk  lane,  than 
Mrs.  Kempton  called  to  see  her,  full  of  news  that  she 
was  eager  to  tell. 

And  over  the  cup  of  tea  and  plate  of  toasted  muffins, 
that  Rachel  soon  prepared,  Mrs.  Kempton  told  her  how 
the  place  had  changed  since  she  had  left. 

How  the  Junipers  had  left  the  house  and  had  taken 


204  THE  LOST  HEIR 

rooms  near  the  Thespian  Temple,  where  little  Suzy  was 
engaged  at  two  guineas  a  week,  and  how  they  were  all 
prospering. 

How  Tony  Brice,  overcome  with  the  shame  of  all  that 
had  happened  to  break  up  his  family,  had  immediately 
after  coming  out  of  prison,  sold  all  his  bits  of  furniture, 
given  up  his  rooms,  paid  his  rent  and  departed,  no  one 
knew  whither. 

How  old  Granny  Flowers  had  held  on  to  her  own 
apartments,  selling  or  pawning  her  goods  piece  by 
piece,  for  money  to  buy  food  or  fuel,  until,  failing 
to  pay  her  rent,  she  had  been  turned  out  by  the  land 
lord,  and  had  found  lodgings  in  a  wretched,  tumble 
down  tenement-house  in  Wellesley,  or,  as  she  called  it, 
Wesley  Court.  How  she  had  roamed  the  streets  by 
day  and  watched  the  bridges  by  night,  searching  for 
her  Rosy,  until  at  length,  some  few  weeks  since,  she 
had  found  the  girl  and  taken  her  home;  and  how  much 
trouble  there  might  be  ahead  for  them  both. 

"And,  now,  Rachel,  give  me  another  cup  of  that  tea, 
for  I'm  hoarse  through  so  much  talking,"  said  Mrs. 
Kempton. 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  anything  about  little 
Benny  and  his  granny.  Are  they  still  on  the  tramp?" 
inquired  Rachel,  as  she  served  her  visitor  with  another 
cup  of  the  beverage  "that  cheers." 

"Oh,  Lor'  bless  you,  no !  They  come  back  the  same 
night  as  Granny  Flowers  found  Rosy.  They  all  hap 
pened  to  meet  on  Lunnun  Bridge.  And  old  Ruth,  hav 
ing  no  place  to  go  to,  along  of  Tony  selling  of  the  furni- 
tur'  and  giving  up  the  rooms,  old  Ruth,  she  sets  up  and 
goes  and  jines  housekeeping,  she  and  Benny,  along  of 
Granny  Flowers  and  Rosy,  which  she  hadn't  a-been 
living  there  more'n  a  week  when  she  died." 

"Died !" 

"Yes;  found  dead  in  her  bed.  Parish  doctor  said 
'apoplexy.'  I  reckon  rum!" 

"And  so  old  Ruth  Drug  is  dead !" 

"Yes,  and  buried  by  the  parish." 

"And  poor  little  Benny?" 

"Why  he  was  the  werry  one  as  come  and  telled  me 


THE  LOST  HEIK  205 

all  this  as  I've  felled  YOU  about  him  and  his  granny  and 
the  Flowerses.  He  was  here  a  Monday  two  weeks  ago. 
He  promised  to  come  back  a  Saturday  to  see  you,  as  I 
expected  how  you'd  come  home  according  to  promise, 
and  telled  the  child  so,  which  you  didn't." 

"The  weather  was  too  severe,  and  my  kind  employer 
insisted  that  I  should  stay.  But  I  feel  sorry  the  child 
should  have  been  disappointed." 

"Oh,  it  was  all  one  to  him,  for  he  didn't  come  him 
self." 

"Oh,  he  didn't!" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  It  was  a  horful  snowstorm,  you 
know." 

"I  don't  think  a  snowstorm  would  have  stopped  little 
Benny.  It  must  have  been  something  else.  When  did 
you  see  the  child  last?" 

"Not  since  that  time  he  first  came — a  Monday  two 
weeks  gone.  Two  Saturdays  have  passed  since  then. 
This  here  is  the  third  Saturday.  Mayhap  he  may  come 
to-night  to  see  if  you  have  returned,  Kachel.  If  any 
thing  can  fetch  him,  it  will  be  the  hope  o'  seeing  you." 

"I  feel  anxious  about  the  child.  What  can  have  kept 
him  away?  Can  he  have  been  sick  all  this  while?"  in 
quired  Rachel  Wood,  thoughtfully. 

"I  don't  know.  How  should  I?  He  looked  orful 
thin  and  pale  like  when  he  was  here;  but,  then,  he  allus 
was  that,  more  or  less,  you  know.  However,  maybe 
he'll  come  to-night,  seeing  it's  Saturday,  and  then  you'll 
see  for  yourself." 

Rachel  Wood  shivered,  and  stirred  the  fire  into  a 
blaze,  and  then  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 
Finally  she  returned  to  her  seat  and  sat  down,  still 
shivering. 

"I  hope  not,"  she  said.  "I  hope  that  poor  child  will 
not  come  out  to-night,  if  he  has  got  any  sort  of  a  roof 
over  his  head.  It  is  bitter  cold,  and  growing  colder 
every  hour.  It  is  going  to  be  an  awful  night,  Mrs. 
Kempton." 

"Aye,  is  it?  And  Mary'll  not  be  coming  home  to 
night,  either,  I'm  thinking,"  said  the  old-clothes  wo 
man. 


206  THE  LOST  HEIK 

"Mary!    Is  she  back?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Melliss  have  been  in  town 
these  two  weeks.  And  Mrs.  Melliss  do  be  so  good  as  to 
let  Mary  come  home  every  Saturday  night  to  see  me. 
And  every  time  she  comes  she  do  be  asking  after  you, 
and  saying  as  her  missus  has  lots  of  work  for  you  as 
soon  as  you  gets  home." 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  it.  I  do  think,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  Mrs.  Melliss,  I  should  have  been  one  more 
to  fill  the  ranks  of  starving  needlewomen." 

As  they  spoke,  there  came  the  sound  of  hurried 
steps  upon  the  stairs  and  along  the  passages,  followed 
b>  the  unceremonious  entrance  of  Mary  Kempton. 

"Why,  it's  Mary !"  exclaimed  the  mother,  jumping  up 
and  kissing  her  daughter. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mary!"  added  Rachel  Wood, 
rising  to  welcome  her  visitor. 

"So  am  I  to  see  you,  Rachel.  They  told  me  mother 
was  up  here,  and  so  I  took  the  liberty  of  coming  right 
up,"  said  the  girl. 

"Quite  right,  Mary  dear!  I  am  glad  you  did.  And 
now  take  off  your  bonnet  and  cloak,  and  draw  up  to  the 
fire.  This  is  dreadful  weather,  isn't  it?  Your  mother 
thought  you  wouldn't  venture  out  in  it,"  said  Rachel,  as 
she  helped  her  friend  off  with  cloak  and  bonnet,  and 
hung  them  up  to  dry. 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  near  so  bad  when  I  started ;  but,  good 
ness!  it's  snowing,  hailing  and  raining  all  at  once,  I 
really  do  think!  And  freezing  as  it  falls.  And  the 
wind  blowing  great  guns,  and  the  sleet  cutting  one's 
face  like  needles !  Yet,  the  worst  night  I  ever  did  see  in 
all  my  life,  I  really  do  believe!" 

"Never  mind,  dear !  Snuggle  up  close  to  the  fire,  and 
put  your  feet  up  on  the  fender,  while  I  make  a  fresh 
cup  of  tea  that  will  warm  you.  And  mother  will  toast 
you  a  muffin,  I  know,"  said  Rachel,  kindly,  as  she  re 
placed  the  kettle  over  the  fire. 

"Aye,  that  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton,  splitting  a 
muffin  and  putting  one-half  of  it  on  a  toasting-fork. 

"Whew!  how  it  blows!"  shuddered  Mary  Kempton, 
cuddling  to  the  fire. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  207 

"Your  misses  will  not  go  for  to  expect  you  to  come 
back  through  such  weather  as  this,  Mary,  will  she,  my 
girl !"  anxiously  inquired  Mrs.  Kempton. 

"Oh,  no,  mother !  She  told  me  she  thought  we  were 
going  to  have  a  very  bad  night,  and  if  so,  as  I  needn't 
come  back  to-night.  And  as  how  Joanna,  the  upper 
housemaid,  would  dress  her  and  sit  up  to  wait  on  her 
when  she  comes  home  from  the  party  to-night." 

"Oh!  Mrs.  Melliss  is  going  to  some  grand  party  to 
night!"  responded  Mrs.  Kempton,  with  all  a  woman's 
love  of  gossip  and  eagerness  to  hear  more,  as  she  but 
tered  the  toasted  muffin  and  put  it  between  two  hot 
plates  and  set  it  on  the  hob  to  keep  it  hot  until  the  tea 
should  be  ready. 

"Grand  party!  I  believe  you,"  said  Mary,  signifi 
cantly. 

"Then  she  is  not  afraid  to  turn  out  in  this  weather," 
observed  Rachel  Wood. 

"Who,  she?  Not  much — not  with  her  warm  shawls 
and  ermines  and  wrappers  of  all  sorts  from  head  to  foot, 
and  her  close-cushioned  brougham,  and  all  that — why 
should  she  fear  the  weather?"  laughed  Mary  Kempton. 

"Why,  indeed !  But,  Molly,  dear,  where  is  this  grand 
party  to  be?"  inquired  Mrs.  Kempton. 

"Oh,  at  the  Duchess  of  Cheviot's!  Such  a  splendid 
ball!  a  sort  of  opening  of  the  season,  you  know,"  said 
Mary,  enthusiastically. 

"And  do  tell,  Molly,  my  girl,  what  will  Mrs.  Melliss 
wear?"  inquired  Mary's  mother. 

"Oh,  such  a  heavenly  dress!  White  tulle  over  white 
satin,  like  piles  of  drifted  fog  on  snow,  you  know ;  the 
tulle  looped  up  with  snowdrops.  And  diamond  jewelry, 
you  know.  I  laid  it  all  out  for  her  before  I  came  away. 
And  Joanna  will  dress  her.  I  almost  envy  Joanna!" 

"Come,  now,  dear,  turn  to  the  table.  Here  is  your 
tea  and  toasted  muffins;  enjoy  them  while  they  are 
hot,"  Rachel  Wood  advised,  as  she  sat  the  teapot  on 
the  table. 

Mary  Kempton  turned  her  chair  to  the  board,  and 
addressed  herself  to  the  comforts  before  her. 

Rachel  Wood  and  Mrs.  Kempton  also  reseated  them- 


208  THE  LOST  HEIR 

t 

selves  at  the  small  table  and  took  each  an  extra  cup  of 
tea  for  company. 

And  then  they  all  really  enjoyed  their  tea  and  toast 
and  warm  coal  fire  all  the  more,  listening  to  the  roaring 
winter  storm  without. 

Suddenly  they  were  startled  by  a  rap  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  Rachel,  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  as 
wondering  who  could  want  her  on  such  a  night;  but 
thinking  also  that  perhaps  it  might  be  some  messen 
ger  from  Mr.  Kempton  for  his  wife  or  daughter. 

The  next  moment  there  entered  the  room  a  poor, 
ragged,  wet  and  shivering  figure,  that  the  three  women 
immediately  recognized  as  Judy  Malony,  a  daughter  of 
that  Pat  Malony  of  Wellesley  Court,  at  whose  wake 
nearly  all  the  denizens  of  the  house  in  Junk  lane  had 
assembled  on  that  fatal  night  of  the  ballet  girl's  mur 
der. 

This  miserable,  half-frozen  and  half-famished  crea 
ture  looked  down  on  the  comfortable  tea-table  and  the 
cozy  fire  and  the  three  women  who  were  seated  there — • 
looked  down  on  them  with  eyes  askance,  through  the 
envy,  hatred  and  malice  that  is  too  often  born  of  bitter 
poverty;  and  then,  before  any  one  could  speak  to  ask 
her  what  she  wanted,  she  broke  out,  in  a  biting  tone : 

"Yes;  you  can  all  sit  here,  eating  and  drinking  and 
feasting!  And  there  is  poor  Rosy  Flowers  starving  to 
death  on  her  bed,  without  a  mouthful  of  food  between 
her  lips  these  five  days !  You  can  sit  here  roasting  and 
toasting  yourselves  before  this  hot  fire,  and  poor  Rosy 
Flowers  a  freezing  on  her  bed,  without  a  blanket  to 
cover  her,  or  a  stick  of  wood  or  handful  of  coals  in  the 
house!  You  can  sit  here  talking  and  joking  and  laugh 
ing,  and  that  poor  girl  and  her  new-born  baby  weep 
ing  their  lives  away  in  cold  and  hunger  and  grief.  And 
you  call  this  being  Christians!  Shame  on  you!" 

Judy  had  raved  off  the  whole  of  her  speech  before  the 
three  women  recovered  from  the  panic  into  which  her 
words  had  thrown  them  sufficiently  to  reply. 

Rachel  Wood  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"For  mercy's  sake !    I  hope  this  is  not  so  bad  as  you 


THE  LOST  HEIR 

say,  Judith  Malony!  Rose  Flowers  starving,  freezing, 
dying!  I  hope  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that!" 

"Come  and  see!"  replied  the  girl,  savagely.  "You've 
got  a  warm  shawl  and  thick  shoes.  You  needn't  be 
afeard  of  the  storm." 

"I  will  come  this  moment,"  said  Rachel,  rising  at 
once. 

"And  I  will  go  with  you,"  added  Mary  Kempton. 

"Girls,  girls,  think  of  what  you  are  about !  You  will 
both  catch  your  deaths!"  urged  Mrs.  Kempton. 

"Mother,  mother,  we  do  think!  We  are  doing  our 
Master's  work!  No  harm  can  come  to  us,"  said  Mary 
Kempton,  as  she  took  down  her  cloak  and  bonnet  to  put 
them  on. 

"Sit  down  to  the  table  there,  Judy,  in  the  seat  near 
est  the  fire.  Eat  and  drink  and  warm  yourself,  while 
I  fill  some  baskets  to  take  with  us,"  said  Rachel.  "Mrs. 
Kempton,  will  you  please  give  Judy  some  tea  and  muf 
fins?" 

The  poor,  famishing  and  freezing  creature  accepted 
the  hospitality  offered  her,  and  Mrs.  Kempton  attended 
to  her  wants,  while  Rachel  Wood  busied  herself  with 
filling  two  baskets. 

Into  one  basket  she  put  tea  and  sugar,  and  bread  and 
butter,  and  a  little  bottle  of  milk.  And  this  basket  she 
gave  to  Mary  Kempton  to  carry. 

Into  the  other  and  larger  basket  she  packed  coals 
and  kindling  wood.  And  this  she  meant  to  carry. 

Finally  she  took  a  warm  blanket  off  her  own  bed, 
and  rolled  it  up  and  tied  it,  and  laid  it  down,  intending, 
to  ask  Judy  to  carry  that. 

And  by  this  time  the  half-frozen  and  half -famished 
girl  having  been  warmed  and  fed,  they  all  prepared  to 
set  out  and  brave  the  storm. 

"And  where  is  the  child  that  was  living  with  them?" 
inquired  Rachel  Wood,  who,  ever  since  the  entrance  of 
Judy  Maloney  with  her  message  of  woe,  had  been 
thinking  more  of  little  Benny  than  of  any  one  else. 

"The  child?  What,  the  child  as  stayed  to  take  care, 
of  'em  when  kind  friends,  Mrs.  Kempton  herself  there 
to  the  fore,  would  a  perwided  for  him  comfortable,  if 


210  THE  LOST  HEIR 

only  he  would  a-left  'em,  which  he  wouldn't?  The 
child  has  begged  and  lied  and  stole  for  'em,  to  keep  'em 
from  starving  and  freezing  and  dying?  Why,  do  you 
think  as  if  the  child  had  been  living  they'd  a-been 
brought  to  this?"  bitterly  inquired  Judy. 

"'If  the  child  had  been  living,'  did  you  say?  Did 
you  say  that?  Oh,  poor  little  Benny!  Dead!  Well, 
it  is  best !  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  best !  I  thank  Heaven,  lit 
tle  Benny  is  dead — dead  in  his  ignorant,  irresponsible 
childhood!  I  thank  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Rachel  Wood, 
earnestly. 

"Who  said  he  was  dead?  He  is  not  dead:  that  is, 
not  quite.  But  he  might's  well  be;  he  might's  well  be. 
He's  down  with  pleurisy  and  'flamatory  rheumatism 
and  what  not !  If  he  hadn't  been  down,  them  as  he  per- 
tected  and  perwided  for  would  never  a-been  fetched  to 
this  ere  pass!"  said  the  girl,  bitterly. 

They  were  now  leaving  the  room.  Rachel  Wood 
turned  to  Mary's  mother,  and  said: 

"It  looks  rude  in  me  to  go  off,  and  leave  a  visitor, 
Mrs.  Kempton;  but,  under  these  circumstances,  you'll 
forgive  me,  I  know." 

"Why,  in  course  I  will — in  course  I  will,  my  child. 
Oh,  Rachel,  don't  say  a  word  more!  My  only  consarn 
is,  whether  you  and  Mary  won't  catch  your  death  o' 
cold,  a-going  out  in  sich  orful  weather  as  this." 

"No  one  ever  came  to  harm  through  doing  their  duty, 
although  it  sometimes  seems  as  if  they  did,"  murmured 
Rachel. 

"Well,  child,  I'll  stop  here  a  minute  and  wash  up  the 
tea  things,  and  tidy  up  your  room  a  bit,  and  make  the 
fire  safe;  and  then  I'll  lock  the  door,  and  take  the  key 
with  me,  and  you  can  call  for  it  when  you  come  back, 
Rachel.  And  you  needn't  be  afeared  of  disturbing  me, 
Rachel.  So  you  can  rap  at  my  room  door,  and  get  your 
key  at  any  time  you  come  back  and  want  it,  if  it's  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  or  near  morning  or  any  time. 
And,  besides,  you  know,  I  shall  be  anxious  to  know 
about  that  there  gal  and  her  child,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton, 
following  the  three  girls  to  the  door. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  neighbor.    If  we  can  do  any  good 


THE  LOST  HEIR  211 

by  staying  there,  we  sha'n't  come  home  till  morning. 
So  don't  sit  up  or  lie  awake  for  us.  Good-night,"  said 
Kachel  Wood. 

"Good-night,  and  Heaven  have  a  care  of  you,  girls  I" 
prayed  Mary's  mother,  as  she  shut  the  door  behind 
them. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  BEGGAR'S  DEATHBED. 

The  three  girls,  with  their  bundle  and  baskets, 
passed  out  into  the  black  darkness  of  the  night,  and  at 
once  faced  a  furious  storm  of  wind,  snow  and  sleet. 

Huddling  their  wraps  around  them  as  well  as  they 
could,  and  tucking  their  faces  down  upon  their  chests, 
to  save  them  from  the  cutting,  stinging  sleet,  they  hur 
ried  on  in  single  file  down  Junk  lane,  and  out  into 
Ship  alley,  and  down  the  alley  to  Low  street,  where, 
at  the  corner,  a  solitary  gas  lamp  shed  a  little,  per 
plexing  light  on  their  dismal  way. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  street  they  saw  the  gas  lamps 
of  the  Strand  shining  redly  and  dimly  through  the 
storm. 

They  turned  their  backs  on  these  lights,  and  hurried 
down  the  street  toward  the  river,  until  they  came  to  a 
narrow,  dilapidated  gateway,  where  one  miserable  light 
was  flickering. 

They  passed  this  gateway,  and  entered  the  wretched 
yard  known  as  "Wellesley  Court."  Famine  Court, 
Filth  Court,  Fever  Court,  had  been  more  appropriate 
names. 

Fortunately  it  was  night,  and  the  eye  was 
spared  the  sight  of  turbid  gutters,  festering  rags,  de 
caying  vegetables,  garbage,  offal,  and  all  the  fever- 
breeding  horrors  of  the  place,  as  well  as  of  the  sin- 
ruined  famine  and  fever-stricken  wrecks  of  humanity 
that  in  the  daytime  crowd  the  yard,  but  in  the  night 
time  go  forth  like  foul  nightbirds  seeking  their  prey, 
or  else  creep  into  these  dens  to  sleep  and  forget. 


212  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Judy  Malony  led  her  companions  across  the  yard, 
which  was  but  very  dimly  lighted  by  the  gas  jet  over 
the  gateway,  and  a  few  household  tapers  shining  here 
and  there  from  dilapidated  windows;  and  she  took 
them  to  a  house  opposite  the  gateway,  and  pushed  open 
a  door  that  at  once  admitted  them  to  a  room  more 
utterly  wretched  in  its  destitution  and  squalor  than 
anything  even  they  had  yet  seen. 

But  at  first  they  could  not  see  it  well. 

The  room  was  obscurely  lighted  by  a  poor  substitute 
for  a  taper — a  piece  of  rag  burning  in  a  saucer  of  very 
dirty  and  offensive  grease,  that  filled  the  place  with  a 
stifling  vapor. 

Besides  this  there  was  no  light  and  there  was  no 
fire.  All  was  nearly  dark  and  intensely  cold.  And  all 
was  silent  as  well,  except  for  a  very  weak  and  piteous 
wail  that  seemed  to  come  from  the  corner  of  the  room, 
and  an  occasional  moan  from  the  dimly  visible  bed. 

"I  am  glad  you  reminded  me  to  bring  a  candle  and 
matches,  Judy,"  said  Eachel  Wood,  as  she  took  from 
her  basket  a  "penny  dip"  and  lighted  it,  and  set  it  on  a 
tin  candlestick  that  she  had  also  provided. 

Then  she  looked  around. 

Oh,  then  so  much  misery  met  her  sight  at  once  that 
she  became  perplexed  and  confounded,  not  knowing 
where  first  to  turn,  where  first  to  offer  help. 

On  a  wretched  cot  in  one  corner  lay  Eosy  Flowers, 
covered  over  with  the  remains  of  a  tattered  old  patch 
work  quilt.  Her  form  was  emaciated  till  it  seemed  a 
mere  skeleton  with  the  skin  stretched  tightly  over  it. 
Her  eyes,  deeply  sunken  and  bright  with  the  fever  of 
famine,  were  turned  eagerly  toward  her  visitors.  Her 
lips,  parched  with  thirst,  opened  as  if  to  speak,  but 
her  voice  died  away  in  husky  murmurs. 

On  a  fragment  of  ragged  and  dirty  carpeting  in  an 
opposite  corner  of  the  room,  lay  little  Benny — his  form 
wasted  to  skin  and  bone,  his  face  flushed,  his  hair 
tangled,  his  head  rolling  in  the  restless  delirium  of 
low  fever. 

On  a  stool  before  the  fireless  hearth  sat  old  Granny 
Flowers,  croning  to  herself  in  the  imbelicity  of  dotage, 


THE  LOST  HEIE  213 

and  holding  her  withered  hands  over  a  few  scraps  of 
old  shoe  leather,  flannel  rags,  strings,  etc.,  which  were 
smoking,  and  which  she  fondly  persuaded  herself 
were  going  to  burn. 

But  in  an  old  lidless  hair  trunk,  on  a  pile  of  rags,  in 
which  it  was  half  buried,  lay  the  most  pitiable  sight  of 
all — a  babe  of  a  few  days  old,  unwashed,  untended, 
festering  in  dirt  and  perishing  of  hunger.  Reader,  I 
saw  all  this  with  my  own  eyes,  and  "not  another's." 

Rachel  Wood  clapped  her  hands  to  her  head  in  utter 
bewilderment  for  a  moment,  but  rallied  herself  in 
stantly,  and  after  telling  Mary  Kempton  to  make  up 
the  fire  from  the  fuel  she  had  bought,  and  to  hang  on 
the  kettle  of  water,  she  went  up  to  the  side  of  the  dying 
girl,  and,  speaking  very  gently,  she  said: 

"Dear  Rose,  I  am  sorry  to  find  you  in  this  way." 

The  girl's  feverish  eyes  brightened  still  more,  as  she 
huskily  answered: 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you !  I  thank  you  so  much 
for  coming!  It  was  so  good  in  you  to  come  to  see 
poor  me." 

"Rose,  I  would  have  come  before,  if  I  had  known 
you  were  sick  and  in  need.  I  came  as  soon  as  I  found 
it  out,  Rose." 

"Yes,  I  know.    Thank — thank — thank  you,  Rachel." 

"You  speak  with  difficulty,  poor  Rose.  Do  not  try  to 
talk." 

"I  haven't — tasted — food — these  five — long  days," 
faltered  the  faint  voice  of  the  girl,  while  her  feverish 
eyes  were  fixed  with  a  hungry  glare  upon  the  face  of 
Rachel. 

"Oh,  Rosy!  what  a  sin  and  a  shame  in  a  Christian 
city!  But  you  shall  have  some  tea  and  some  toast  in 
five  minutes,  dear,"  said  Rachel,  hurrying  to  the  fire 
place,  where  Mary  Kempton  had  already  kindled  a  fire 
and  set  over  it  a  tin  cup  of  water  to  boil,  for  in  that 
miserable  abode  there  was  no  tea-kettle. 

The  old  woman  had  moved  her  stool  into  a  corner, 
wrhere  she  sat  muttering  to  herself  in  an  utterly  child 
ish  and  imbecile  manner. 


214  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Rachel  went  zealously  to  work  to  help  to  prepare 
food  and  drink  for  the  starving  girl. 

She  hunted  up  a  small  pitcher  without  a  handle, 
which  she  made  to  do  duty  as  a  teapot. 

Then,  upon  further  search,  she  found  a  cracked  cup 
and  saucer,  and  the  half  of  a  large  dish. 

"We  must  make  these  do  for  to-night,  Mary.  To 
morrow  morning  I  will  step  over  home  and  bring  what 
it  most  wanted/'  said  Eachel. 

And  the  two  girls  soon  got  ready  a  very  good  cup  of 
tea  and  a  delicate  round  of  milk  toast,  which  they  car 
ried  to  the  sufferer. 

Mary  Kempton  got  up  on  the  bed  behind  Rose,  and 
lifted  and  supported  her  in  a  sitting  position,  while 
Rachel  Wood  set  the  tea  and  toast  on  the  bed  before 
her,  and  began  to  feed  the  invalid. 

But,  oh!  the  poor  girl  could  scarcely  swallow  the 
tea,  given  her  even  as  it  was,  in  small  teaspoonfuls  at  a 
time. 

And  when,  with  the  eagerness  of  famine,  she 
snatched  and  tried  to  swallow  a  morsel  of  the  soft  milk 
toast,  she  choked,  grew  sick  and  motioned  for  them 
to  take  it  all  away  and  to  lay  her  down  again. 

"It  is  too  late,"  she  panted,  faintly— "too  late!- 
thought — I    could    eat — and    drink — so    much — but  I 
can't.    I  can't — can't  swallow ;  and,  if  I  could,  it  would 
sicken  me — too  late!" 

"Oh,  if  we  only  had  a  little  brandy  or  wine!  But  all 
the  places  are  shut  up  now!"  said  Rachel,  as  she  re 
moved  the  almost  untouched  tea  and  toast. 

"Give  it  to  me,  then.  I  can  eat  it.  I'm  hungry,  I  tell 
you.  But  none  of  you  don't  care  nothing  about  me. 
No,  when  one's  old,  nobody  cares  for  'em!"  grumbled 
Granny  Flowers,  holding  out  her  withered  hands  for 
the  food. 

Rachel  gave  it  to  her,  and  the  old  creature  returned 
to  her  stool  and  sat  down,  and  began  to  eat  and  drink 
ravenously. 

At  this  moment  the  miserable  babe  in  the  box  awoke 
and  began  to  cry  with  hunger  or  pain,  or  both. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  215 

"Oh,  take  it,  Rachel!  Oh,  feed  it!  I  have  nothing 
for  it!"  moaned  Rose,  from  the  bed. 

And  Rachel  moved  to  do  her  bidding,  but  Mary 
Kempton  interrupted  her,  saying: 

"Let  me  do  this,  Rachel.  The  miserable  little  crea 
ture  wants  washing  and  dressing  as  well  as  feeding, 
and  I,  who  have  helped  to  nurse  so  many  little  baby 
brothers  and  sisters,  know  a  deal  more  about  it  than 
you  do.  You  go  and  look  at  Benny.  He  is  very  ill, 
too.  Listen  to  him!" 

Rachel  Wood  very  willingly  turned  her  attention  to 
Benny,  who  just  at  this  moment  had  begun  to  roll  his 
head  again  and  to  mutter. 

"Never  you  mind,  Rosy — Get  well  soon,  and  go  out 
for  you  again — Bless  you,  I'm  not  ill — When  I  get  a 
big  man — crack  a  big  crib — The  crown?  Yes,  sir — 
That  lady  there — that  love-er-ly,  love-er-ly  lady  there 
"  murmured  the  child,  in  his  delirious  dream. 

Rachel  went  to  him  and  felt  his  head.  It  was  like 
burning  coals.  She  took  her  own  handkerchief  from 
her  pocket  and  wet  it  in  cold  water,  and  laid  it  on  his 
forehead. 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  her. 

"Do  you  know  me,  Benny?"  she  kindly  inquired. 

"Yes;  what's  them  you've  got  on  your  head?"  he 
asked,  looking  wistfully  at  her. 

"I  have  nothing  on  my  head,  child,"  she  answered, 
putting  her  hands  up  to  feel  and  make  sure — "noth 
ing  at  all  on  my  head,  Benny." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have!  I  see  now.  It's  my  wreath  of 
roses.  It  ain't  for  you.  It's  for — it's  for — that  love- 
er-ly  lady " 

Rachel  saw  that  he  was  still  delirious.  She  shifted 
him  into  a  somewhat  easier  position  on  his  poor,  rag 
ged  rug,  and  then  wet  the  handkerchief  on  his  head 
again,  and  sat  by  him  until  he  fell  into  a  disturbed 
sleep. 

Meanwhile  Mary  Kempton,  with  the  help  of  Judith 
Malony,  had  washed  the  baby  and  fed  it. 

Then  the  dying  girl  beckoned  Rachel  Wood  to  come 
to  her.  And  when  Rachel  had  seated  herself  at  the 


216  THE  LOST  HEIR 

bedside,  Rose,  with  feeble  and  failing  fingers,  un- 
loosened  from  her  own  neck  a  narrow  black  ribbon,  to 
which  was  attached  a  very  slender  gold  ring. 

"There,  Rachel,"  she  panted,  faintly,  "I  have  kept 
that  through  all — when  I  was  starving — when  I  was 
freezing — I  have  kept  it  through  all;  I  wouldn't  sell 
it,  or  even  pawn  it,  Rachel.  I  have  kept  it  through  all." 

"But  what  about  it,  Rose?"  inquired  Rachel,  looking 
curiously  at  the  ring,  which  was  but  a  poor  little 
thread-like  circle  of  gold,  worth  at  most  half  a  crown. 

"Why,  don't  you  see  what  it  is? — My  treasure,  my 
jewel,  my  honor,  Rachel  Wood!  My  wedding  ring!" 

She  had  spoken  with  great  excitement  and  false 
strength,  and  now  she  fell  back  panting  on  her  pillow. 

"Oh,  Rose,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  a  wedding  ring,  my 
child.  So  very  glad  and  thankful!  All  the  rest  is  as 
nothing  now!"  exclaimed  Rachel,  as  the  tears  of  joy 
filled  her  eyes. 

The  dying  girl  smiled  on  her,  and  with  an  effort  said : 

"You  are — so  glad.  I  was  not  as  bad  as  you 
thought." 

"So  glad,  for  your  sake.  So  glad  for  your  child's," 
answered  Rachel.  And  then  she  added: 

"Now,  Rose,  you  must  tell  me  who  gave  you  this 
wedding  ring." 

"No,  I  must  not  tell  you  that.  It  is  a  dead — dead 
secret.  I  promised  him  never,  never  to  tell  without  his 
consent.  And  I  cannot — break  a  promise — on  my 
deathbed — you  know,"  panted  the  dying  girl. 

"Where  is  he?  He  would  surely  release  you  from 
your  promise,  Rose?" 

"I  don't  know — where  he  is.  I  wish  I  did.  I  have 

not  seen — nor  heard  of  him — in  many "  answered 

the  girl,  panting  so  hard  that  Rachel  saw  at  once  that 
this  conversation  was  shaking  out  the  few  remaining 
sands  in  her  glass  of  life. 

"You  must  not  talk  any  more  now,  Rose.  Lie  still 
and  try  to  go  to  sleep.  To-morrow  morning,  as  soon 
as  the  shops  are  open,  I  will  get  you  some  brandy,"  said 
Rachel. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  217 

And  Rose  obeyed  her  by  lying  still,  but  whether  she 
really  slept,  or  only  rested,  no  one  could  tell. 

Rachel  went  over  to  Judy,  and  questioned  her. 

''Have  the  parish  done  anything  at  all  for  the  old 
woman,  or  the  girl,  or  the  child  ?" 

"No,  'cause  the  old  'oman  wouldn't  go  inter  the 
Union.  No  more  would  Rosy.  As  for  Benny,  they 
claimed  him,  did  Rosy  and  the  old  un,  for  their  own. 
And  they  wouldn't  part  with  him  nuther.  And  I'm  not 
a-blaming  of  'em.  Anythink  better'n  the  Union.  Ask 
anybody  as  has  been  there,"  bitterly  answered  the  girl. 

"Hush!  Our  talk  disturbs  the  poor  boy,"  said 
Rachel.  And  indeed  little  Benny  was  now  rolling  his 
head  and  raving  in  high  delirium. 

Rachel  went  to  him  and  wet  his  head,  and  tried  to 
soothe  him,  but  without  success.  He  continued  to  toss 
and  rave.  His  ravings  disturbed  poor  Rose,  who 
groaned,  and  began  to  breathe  in  that  distressing  man 
ner  peculiar  to  some  dying  persons. 

Meanwhile  the  old  woman  was  crying  and  rocking 
her  body  to  and  fro. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  the  wretched  babe  awoke 
and  set  up  a  piteous  wail. 

Judy  took  it  in  her  arms,  and  walked  it  up  and  down 
the  squalid  floor,  but  could  not  quiet  it. 

And  so,  with  the  delirious  tossing  and  raving  of  little 
Benny,  the  hard  breathing  of  the  dying  girl,  the  wail 
ing  of  the  suffering  infant,  the  imbecile  murmuring  of 
the  old  woman  within,  and  the  howling  of  the  wind 
and  the  rattling  of  the  sleet  without,  the  hideous  night 
went  on. 

"Oh,  what  a  woeful  hour!  Oh,  that  it  were  morn 
ing!"  signed  Rachel  Wood,  fervently. 

"And,  oh,  what  a  lesson  to  us  all!"  answered  Mary 
Kempton.  "Only  this  evening  my  head  was  all  but 
turned  with  the  sight  of  my  mistress'  ball  dress  and 
jewels,  and  the  thought  of  the  grand  ball  at  the 
Duchess  of  Cheviot's,  so  that  I  talked  and  rattled  away 
about  those  vanities  as  if  there  was  not  a  pain  or  a 
duty  left  in  life.  And  now  look  here — Rachel,  what 
o'clock  is  it,  do  you  think?" 


218  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"I  heard  St.  Giles'  strike  nine  a  little  while  ago." 

"Nine  o'clock,  and  Mrs.  Melliss  is  now  dressing  for 
the  ball  at  the  Duchess  of  Cheviot's.  Think  of  that, 
and  think  of  this,  good  angels  in  heaven!" 

Rachel  Wood  sat  down  beside  little  Benny  with  a 
cup  of  water  in  her  hand,  to  bathe  his  head. 

And  now  behold  the  contrast! 

It  is  nine  o'clock  in  this  wretched,  squalid,  fever- 
stricken  tenement  in  Wellesley  Court;  and  little  Ben 
ny,  the  eldest,  the  unowned,  unknown  son  of  the  Duke 
and  Duchess  of  Cheviot,  is  lying  ill  of  a  fever  brought 
on  by  starvation  and  exposure.  He  is  half  clothed  in 
dirty  rags,  and  tossing  about  on  the  almost  bare  floor, 
scantily  covered  with  a  piece  of  old,  filthy  carpeting. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  Cheviot  House,  in  Piccadilly. 
The  select  dinner  party  that  was  to  precede  the  ball  of 
the  evening  is  just  over.  The  dessert  is  placed  upon 
the  table;  and  the  children,  as  is  the  custom  in  that 
house  of  close  domestic  love  and  union,  are  brought 
in  for  a  few  moments  to  partake  moderately  of  the 
fruits  and  ices,  and  to  be  caressed  and  admired  before 
being  dismissed  to  their  beds.  There  is  the  little  Earl 
of  Wellrose,  and  with  him  the  little  ladies  Jessie, 
Clemence,  Hester,  and  Eva  Douglas.  And  they  are  all 
petted  and  praised  by  the  guests,  and  all  their  little 
sayings  and  doings  are  duly  approved  and  applauded. 

Suddenly  little  Lady  Jessie  Douglas  speaks  out: 

"Mamma,  dear,  do  you  remember  that  pretty  little 
beggar  boy,  that  we  called  in  and  gave  the  cake  to,  on 
Twelfth-night?" 

"Yes,  love.  What  puts  him  in  your  head  now?"  in 
quired  the  duchess. 

"I  do  not  know,  mamma,  dear,  unless  it  is  this  piece 
of  cake.  But,  oh,  was  he  not  the  very  image  of  my 
brother  Wellrose?" 

This  childish  chat  of  the  little  Lady  Jessie  necessi 
tates  an  explanation  of  her  "Twelfth-night  freak,"  as  it 
was  always  called  in  the  family. 

And  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  dinner  guests,  the 
story  of  her  little  ladyship's  whim  of  having  the  beg 
gar  boy  brought  in  from  the  street,  that  she  might  give 


THE  LOST  HEIR  219 

him  her  slice  of  the  Twelfth-day  cake,  and  of  his  good 
fortune  in  finding  the  ring,  and  the  absurdity  of  his 
being  crowned  king,  and  the  strangeness  of  his  conduct 
in  passing  over  his  little  benefactress,  Lady  Jessie,  and 
all  the  other  little  ladies,  and  choosing  the  Duchess  of 
Cheviot  for  his  queen,  and  finally  of  his  ignominiously 
breaking  down  and  crying  and  having  to  be  sent  away. 

When  the  guests  have  sufficiently  enjoyed  this  story, 
and  rallied  the  little  beauty  on  her  caprices,  the  chil 
dren  are  all  kissed  and  dismissed. 

At  this  very  moment,  little  Benny,  tossing  in  fever 
and  delirium  on  his  miserable  pallet  in  the  squalid 
tenement-house  in  Wellesley  Court,  raves  out : 

"No ;  not  for  you — not  for  you,  little  girl,  if  you  did 
give  me  the  slice  of  cake !  It  is  for  that  love-er-ly  lady ! 
Don't  cry,  Rosy.  I  ain't  hungry!  deed  I  ain't — not 
much — you  take  and  eat  it,  Rosy!  When  I  get  a  big 

man — crack  a  crib,  you  know.  And — and •  No,  not 

cold — 'deed  I  an't,  granny! — You  take  the  carpet — 
poor  granny! — When  I  get  a  big  man " 

And  so  he  maundered  on  in  his  frenzy,  until  he  grad 
ually  sank  into  stupor. 

This  most  miserable  night  passed  at  last 

With  the  earliest  dawn  of  day  Rachel  Wood,  leaving 
the  sufferers  as  I  have  described  them,  took  a  basket 
and  went  out. 

She  found  that  the  storm  had  passed  away  with  the 
night.  Of  this  she  felt  so  glad,  that  she  even  hoped 
much  of  the  hideous  misery  she  had  witnessed  might 
also  melt  away  before  the  night  of  the  coming  day. 
She  repeated  to  herself: 

"  'Sorrow  lasteth  but  a  night,  and  joy  cometh  with 
the  morning.' " 

She  went  forth  from  that  filthy  courtyard  and 
walked  on  up  Low  street  until  she  reached  the  Strand. 
And  there  she  entered  the  first  wine  store  she  found 
open,  and  bought  a  small  bottle  of  brandy. 

She  then  retraced  her  steps  and  went  down  Low 
street,  up  Ship  alley  and  into  Junk  lane. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  and  breaking  through  the 


220  THE  LOST  HEIR 

low  clouds  along  the  eastern  horizon,  as  she  reached 
the  old  tenement-house  where  she  lived. 

The  denizens  of  the  house  were  but  just  stirring. 

She  passed  the  pawnbroker's  shop,  and  opened  the 
door  of  the  old-clothes  store. 

Mrs.  Kemp  ton  was  already  there,  arranging  her  un 
savory  wares. 

"Come  for  your  key,  Rachel?  Here  it  is.  And  how 
is  the  poor  girl?"  inquired  Mrs.  Kempton. 

Rachel  described  the  condition  of  Rose  Flowers  and 
of  the  other  wretched  inmates  of  the  shed  in  Wellesley 
Court  and  then  added: 

"You  must  not  think  an  ill  thought  of  poor  Rose  any 
more,  Mrs.  Kempton.  She  was  married." 

"Now  you  don't  say  so!  Who  married  of  her?"  in 
quired  the  poor  woman. 

"I  don't  know.  Some  unprincipled  man,  I  suppose, 
of  a  higher  rank  than  herself,  who  was  ashamed  to 
own  her,  and  has  now  deserted  her.  But,  womanlike, 
she  is  so  loyal  to  him  that  she  will  not  give  up  his 
name." 

"Well,  I  do  think  girls  is  sich  fools !"  observed  Mrs. 
Kempton. 

"Well,  now,  I'll  take  my  key,  if  you  please,  and  go  up 
to  my  room.  I  wish  to  procure  some  necessaries  to 
take  to  Rose,  and  then  I  shall  stay  with  her  until  all 
is  over." 

"Then  you  really  think  as  she'll  die?" 

"She  has  been  dying  all  night.  She  may  be  dead 
when  I  get  back,"  answered  Rachel,  gravely. 

"Well,  here,  take  your  key,  Rachel.  You're  a  good 
girl.  I'll  say  it,  and  stand  to  it." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Mrs.  Kempton." 

"I  do,  then.  But,  Rachel,  tell  my  Mary  as  I'd  be 
willing  enough  to  let  her  stay  'long  o'  that  poor  girl  to 
day  if  it  was  left  to  me;  but  she  must  think  of  her 
missus,  and  keeping  of  her  place,  and  she  must  go 
right  straight  back  to  Charles  street  early  this  morn 
ing  to  wait  on  her  missus  at  her  t'ilet." 

"She  is  going  back  as  soon  as  I  return  to  take  her 
place  in  that  house  of  death,  Mrs.  Kempton.  And  you 


THE  LOST  HEIR  221 

need  not  be  anxious.  Mrs.  Melliss  is  a  kind  mistress, 
and,  besides,  she  will  sleep  late  this  morning  after  the 
ball ;  so  that  she  will  not  ring  for  her  maid  before  Mary 
gets  back." 

And,  saying  these  words,  Rachel  Wood  took  up  her 
basket  and  her  key  and  went  up  to  her  room. 

Here,  from  her  own  slender  stores,  she  filled  her 
basket  with  all  she  thought  most  needed  in  that  house, 
where  all  the  necessaries  of  life  were  lacking. 

Among  the  rest,  she  put  in  a  complete  change  of 
clean  clothes  for  Rose  Flowers,  and  also  an  old  sheet 
and  a  flannel  skirt,  with  which  she  meant  to  make 
something  to  dress  the  baby. 

Then,  well  laden,  she  left  her  house  and  hurried  back 
to  the  shed  in  Wellesley  Court. 

She  found  all  there  very  much  as  she  had  left  them. 

"Little  Benny  has  been  sleeping  heavily  ever  since 
you  left.  The  babe  has  been  quiet,  too,  ever  since  I  fed 
it  and  put  it  to  sleep.  But  as  for  Rosy,  I  think  she  is 
sinking  fast,"  was  the  report  made  by  Mary  Kempton 
on  the  return  of  Rachel  Wood. 

Rachel  went  to  the  bedside  of  the  girl,  and  found 
the  words  of  her  friend  true. 

The  ashen  shades  of  death  were  creeping  over  the 
still,  pale,  young  face  that  lay  before  her.  As  Rachel 
gazed  upon  her,  Rose  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  faint 
ly,  but  did  not  speak. 

Rachel  poured  out  a  little  brandy  into  a  cup  and 
gave  her  a  teaspoonful  of  it. 

Rose  seemed  temporarily  revived. 

And  then  Rachel  asked  her  how  she  felt. 

"I  am  going  fast,  dear  friend.  Stoop  down — I  want 
to  ask  you  something,"  said  the  poor  creature,  in  a 
faint  voice. 

Rachel  put  her  ear  down  to  the  feeble  lips,  when 
Rose  murmured: 

"The  old  woman  will  not  last  many  days.  Then 
they'll  send  my  baby  to  the  workhouse.  Will  you  go 
there  sometimes  to  see  him?" 

"Rose,"  said  Rachel,  sweetly  and  solemnly,  "have  no 
anxiety  about  your  baby.  I  will  adopt  him,  and  bring 


222  THE  LOST  HEIR 

him  up  as  my  own  son.  I  shall  never  marry.  Sickly 
people  never  should.  But  I  want  something  to  love, 
And  I  will  take  your  child,  if  you  will  leave  him  to 
me." 

"If  I  will!  Oh,  Rachel,  Rachel!  Bless  you!  bless 
you !"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  starting  up  to  catch  and 
kiss  the  hands  of  the  seamstress. 

But  her  false  strength  failed  and  she  fell  back,  faint 
ing. 

Greatly  shocked,  Rachel  administered  another  tea- 
spoonful  of  brandy,  and  then  ordered  and  enforced  per 
fect  quiet  for  the  sufferer. 

Mary  Kempton  next  took  leave  of  Rachel  softly,  and 
without  disturbing  Rose,  and  with  a  promise  to  return 
and  sit  up  that  night,  if  her  mistress  would  permit  her, 
she  left  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE    BALLET    GIRL^S    FATE. 

Rachel  Wood  and  Judy  Malony  were  thus  left  to 
watch  the  four  equally  helpless  creatures — the  dying 
girl,  the  delirious  child,  the  new-born  babe  and  the  im 
becile  old  woman. 

The  dying  girl  lay  sleeping  heavily,  and  sometimes 
waking  and  breathing  hard,  or  rather  making  that  in 
describable  and  most  distressing  sound  peculiar  to 
some  persons  in  a  long-protracted  death  struggle. 

All  that  Rachel  could  do  for  her  was  to  give  her  oc 
casionally  a  teaspoonful  of  beef  tea,  or  a  few  drops  of 
brandy,  so  as  to  sustain  life  a  little  longer. 

The'  child  Benny  lay  in  a  stupor,  broken  at  intervals 
by  spasmodic  starts,  moans  and  delirium. 

The  only  relief  Rachel  could  give  him  was  to  apply 
cloths  wet  with  ice  water  to  his  burning  head. 

The  babe  slept  as  new-born  babes  usually  do,  waking 
only  to  cry  and  be  fed,  and  to  fall  asleep  again. 

The  old  woman  sat  in  the  chimney  corner  grumbling 


THE  LOST  HEIE  223 

and  crooning  to  herself,  half  conscious  of  the  trouble 
around  her,  and  wholly  unable  to  assist  in  its  relief. 

Rachel  Wood,  in  the  intervals  of  her  attendance 
upon  the  ill  and  the  dying,  found  time  to  cut  up  the  old 
linen  sheet  and  the  old  flannel  skirt  that  she  had 
brought,  and  to  shape  them  into  baby  clothes,  which 
she  and  Judy  began  to  sew. 

Quite  early  in  the  forenoon  the  parish  doctor  made 
his  appearance. 

He  looked  at  poor  Rose,  and  said  that  she  was  sink 
ing  fast,  but  that  the  struggle  was  not  painful.  He 
then  wrote  a  prescription  for  a  sedative  to  soothe  her 
mortal  agony. 

Next  he  examined  the  sick  boy,  said  that  he  was  very 
ill,  and  must  be  sent  to  the  Middlesex  Hospital.  But 
meanwhile  he  wrote  a  prescription  for  a  febrifuge  to 
cool  and  lower  his  fever. 

He  gave  Rachel  Wood  an  order  to  procure  these 
medicines  from  the  free  dispensary  attached  to  the  Mid 
dlesex  Hospital. 

And  then  he  promised  to  look  in  again  at  night,  and 
took  his  leave. 

Rachel  Wood  sent  Judy  Malony  with  the  order  and 
the  two  prescriptions  to  get  the  medicines  from  the  dis 
pensary,  and  then  sat  down  to  sew  while  watching  her 
patients. 

As  she  sat  and  sewed  she  was  a  little  startled  by 
hearing  the  voice  of  Rose,  speaking  clearer  than  she 
had  heard  it  yet,  and  saying: 

"Rachel,  dear,  are  you  quite  alone?" 

"No,  dear,"  answered  Rachel,  rising  quickly  and 
going  to  the  bedside.  "Besides  you  and  the  baby,  there 
is  granny  in  the  chimney  corner." 

"Granny  and  the  baby  are  equally  harmless.  Is  there 
no  one  else?" 

"No  one  else,  dear,"  answered  Rachel,  wondering  at 
the  sudden  strength  that  had  come  to  the  dying  girl, 
but  drawing  no  hopeful  augury  from  it. 

"Come  here,  then,  Rachel.  I  must  speak  to  you  alone 
while  I  can." 

Rachel  drew  nearer  still. 


224  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Rachel  you  will  keep  my  poor  child  ?"  inquired  Rose. 

"Yes,  dear.  I  told  you  so.  I  will  keep  him,  and, 
Heaven  sparing  me  and  him,  I  will  bring  him  up  to  be 
a  good  and  useful  man." 

"Bless  you,  bless  you,  bless  you,  dear  Rachel!"  slowly 
and  fervently  repeated  Rosy.  "You  have  got  my  wed 
ding  ring,  Rachel?"  she  then  inquired. 

"Yes,  dear.    Here  it  is.    Do  you  want  it?" 

"No.  Keep  it  to  show  my  boy,  so  he  may  know  his 
mother  was  married,  though  he  may  never  know  who 
his  father  was.  But  stop.  Let  me  take  it  in  my  hand 
once  more,  Rachel." 

Rachel  Wood  drew  a  small  paper  parcel  from  her 
pocket,  unrolled  it  and  took  out  the  slender  gold  ring, 
still  attached  to  the  narrow  black  ribbon.  She  put  it  in 
Rosy's  hand. 

The  poor  girl,  without  untying  it  from  its  ribbon, 
slipped  it  on  her  wasted  finger,  looked  at  it  fondly, 
smiled  on  it,  kissed  it,  and  then  drew  it  off  again,  and 
handed  it  back  to  her  friend,  saying: 

"Take  it,  dear.  Keep  it  safely.  Show  it  to  my  boy 
when  he  is  old  enough  to  understand,  so  he  may  know 
his  mother  was  honest,  though  his  father  may  be  lost." 

"Rosy,  oh,  my  poor  Rosy,"  said  Rachel,  as  she  took 
the  ring  and  wrapped  it  up  and  replaced  it  in  her 
pocket — "my  dear  girl,  though  you  are  bound  by  your 
promise  not  to  give  up  the  name  of  that  man 

"I  do  not  believe  I  really  know  his  true  name.  I 
have  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  courted  me  and 
married  me  under  a  false  name.  But  even  that  false 
name  I  must  not  divulge,"  said  the  poor  girl. 

"Well,  though  you  must  not  do  that,  yet  are  you  not 
free  to  tell  me  enough  to  afford  me  some  clew  by  which, 
at  some  time,  I  may  be  able  to  trace  this  man  for  his 
child's  sake?"  pleaded  Rachel. 

"I  don't  know.  But  this  much  I  think  I  can  tell 
you " 

"Take  a  cup  of  beef  tea  and  a  teaspoonful  of  brandy 
first,  dear,  and  that  will  give  you  strength  to  go  on," 
said  Rachel. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  225 

And  she  administered  both  restoratives  and  then  sat 
down  again  by  the  bedside. 

"It  was  at  the  theatre  it  all  began.  He  saw  me  dance. 
He  asked  the  manager  to  take  him  behind  the  scenes 
and  introduce  him  to  me.  The  manager  of  the  Thes 
pian  never  cared  a  pinch  of  snuff  for  the  morals  of  us 
poor  ballet  girls.  So  he  brought  this  gentleman  to  the 

green-room  and  introduced  him  to  me  as  a  Mr.  , 

a  very  common  name,  that  I  seemed  to  know  at  once 
did  not  belong  to  that  aristocratic-looking  man." 

"And  yet  it  might/'  said  Rachel,  smiling  sadly  at  the 
romantic  fancy  of  the  poor  girl,  who  had  seen,  in  some 
Smith  or  Jones,  a  Howard  or  a  Cavendish. 

"He  followed  me  up  from  that  night.  He  made  me 
presents  and  gave  me  treats.  He  used  to  take  me,  and 
any  favorite  companions  I  might  like  to  select,  to  little 
dinners  and  suppers  at  Richmond  and  other  places." 

Rosy  paused  for  breath.  Rachel  sighed.  It  was  the 
old,  old  beaten  road  to  ruin !  Rosy  resumed  : 

"One  night,  after  the  performance  was  over,  he  called 
for  me  in  a  carriage  at  the  stage  door,  and  invited  me 
to  go  with  him  to  a  little  supper.  Somehow,  though  I 
had  grown  to  love  him,  I  never  liked  to  go  anywhere 
with  him  alone.  So  I  told  him  I  would  like  to  go  if 
he  would  let  me  ask  Flora  May,  one  of  my  companions, 
to  go  with  me,  which  he  did.  He  took  us  to  a  lovely 
little  villa  in  St.  John's  Wood.  It  was  a  moonlight 
night,  so  we  could  see  the  outside  of  the  villa  and  the 
grounds.  And  oh !  it  was  beautiful !" 

"A  white  sepulcher!"  sadly  observed  Rachel. 

"Ah!  but  it  was  lovely  outside  and  inside  both! 
When  we  went  in  we  found  a  splendid  little  drawing- 
room  and  dining  room ;  connected  by  sliding  doors,  on 
one  side  of  the  hall,  and  a  pretty  bedchamber  and  dress 
ing-room  also  communicating,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hall ;  and  there  was  a  conservatory,  and  an  aviary,  and 
a  flower  garden." 

"Dante  clothed  the  gate  of  hell  with  terrors.  He 
should  rather  have  wreathed  it  with  flowers!  It  would 
have  been  truer  to  truth,"  put  in  Rachel,  while  Rosy 
paused  to  rest.  At  length  the  dying  girl  resumed. 


226  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"We  took  off  our  hats  in  the  pretty  bedroom,  and 
then  we  went  into  the  splendid  little  drawing-room, 
and  were  scarcely  seated  when  the  sliding  doors  were 
withdrawn,  and  we  were  invited  into  the  elegant  little 
dining-room,  where  a  delicious  little  supper  was  spread. 
Oh,  dear,  we  ate  of  the  most  delicious  food  and  drank 
of  the  richest  wines.  Ah,  dear,  I  have  hungered  and 
thirsted,  starved  and  froze  enough  since  to  make  up 
for  all  that  luxury  and  splendor!" 

"Poor  child!  Rest  a  while,  and  then  go  on,"  said 
Rachel,  compassionately,  as  she  passed  her  hand  over 
the  jetty  locks  of  the  girl. 

"The  wine  got  into  my  head,"  she  resumed,  "and  I 
talked  and  laughed  a  great  deal.  I  was  perfectly 
charmed  and  carried  away  with  the  beauty  and  splen 
dor  of  the  miniature  villa,  and  said  so.  So,  after  sup 
per  he  took  me  into  the  conservatory  to  show  me  the 
flowers.  Flora  May  stayed  behind,  on  purpose,  as  I 
really  do  believe.  And  there,  having  me  all  alone  to 
himself,  he  told  me  how  he  loved  me,  and  told  me  that 
this  elegant  villa  might  be  my  own  if  I  would  come 
and  live  in  it." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Rachel,  bitterly;  "the  old  temptation 
of  the  devil:  'All  these  things  will  I  give  thee,  if  thou 
wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me.'  But  go  on,  dear." 

"The  wine  had  not  got  so  much  into  my  head  as  to 
make  me  forget  my  resolution.  I  told  him  no,  and  no, 
and  no,  and  I  broke  away  from  him  and  ran  back  into 
the  drawing-room,  where  Flora  May  was  sitting,  look 
ing  over  a  book  of  'The  Beauties  of  Charles  the  Sec 
ond's  Court/  And  then  we  went  and  put  on  our  bon 
nets  to  go  home." 

"And  afterward?"  inquired  Rachel. 

"Of  course,  I  ought  afterward  to  have  cut  his  ac 
quaintance,  but  I  didn't.  I  liked  suppers  and  dinners, 
and  treats  and  presents  too  well  for  that.  But  I  would 
not  leave  my  grandparents'  poor,  miserable  home  and 
go  and  live  in  his  beautiful  villa,  until  he  married  me, 
which  at  length  he  did." 

The  fast-failing  girl  paused  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  resumed: 


THE  LOST  HEIE  227 

"I  do  believe  he  was  madly  in  love  with  me  just 
about  that  time,  else  he  never  would  have  done  what 
he  did.  But  you  know,  Kachel,  I  was  said  to  be  pretty 
then." 

"Very  pretty,  my  poor  Kose." 

"Ah,  yes!  but  the  beauty  that  might  have  been  my 
blessing  has  proved  my  curse.  Ah,  well,  he  was  madly 
in  love  with  this  poor  beauty,  as  I  said,"  sighed  Rosy. 
And  then  she  relapsed  into  a  silence  so  long  that  Ra 
chel,  who  had  good  reasons  for  wishing  to  know  the 
whole  truth  of  this  mourful  affair,  ventured  to  recall 
her  attention  by  inquiring: 

"And  about  the  marriage,  Rosy?" 
"Oh,  yes!"  she  said,  rousing  herself.  "It  was  at 
Greenwich,  after  a  white  bait  dinner.  We  kept  it  up 
all  night.  Instead  of  going  home  and  going  to  bed  in 
the  morning,  he  stayed  up  and  sent  for  a  special  license 
and  a  parson,  and  married  me  there  in  the  presence  of 
two  friends  as  witnesses.  And  then  he  took  me  to  the 
elegant  villa.  And  I  lived  in  splendor,  pleasure  and 
luxury,  a  fool's  paradise,  for  four  months." 
"A  fool's  paradise,  indeed!"  sighed  Rachel. 
Then  one  day  he  was  missing.  And  days  passed  and 
he  did  not  come  back.  And  I  was  first  uneasy,  and 
then  anxious,  and  then  desperate.  Tradesmen's  bills 
came  in,  and  I  had  no  money  to  meet  them.  Two  quar 
ters'  rent  was  due,  and  I  had  no  funds  to  pay.  The 
house  had  been  rented  furnished.  So  not  only  did  that 
make  the  rent  double,  but  it  also  left  no  property  to 
satisfy  the  landlord's  claims  except  niy  personal  effects, 
which  were  all  seized.  And  so  one  day  I  found  my 
self  in  the  street  homeless  and  penniless." 

"Poor  child !  If  you  had  only  had  the  courage  of  the 
prodigal  son,  to  come  home!" 

"If  I  had !  But  I  hadn't !  I  was  afraid  of  facing  my 
grandfather.  I  heard  afterward  how  my  elopement  had 
killed  him.  But  then  I  did  not  know  it,  for  I  should 
not  have  been  afraid  to  face  my  poor  old  grandmother. 
Well,  Rachel,  you  may  guess*  what  followed.  I  was 
driven  from  one  wretched  lodging  house  to  another, 
while  I  had  a  rag  of  clothes  left  to  sell  to  pay  my 


228  THE  LOST  HEIR 

lodging.  And  then  at  last,  came  that  awful  night  when 
I  was  turned  out  of  my  last  miserable  shelter,  with 
only  clothing  enough  to  cover  my  body !" 

"That   was   terrible!" 

"Yes.  Some  one  has  written  of  just  such  poor,  lost 
creatures  as  I : 

"The  Street  said,  'Sin  to  live ;' 
And  the  River  said,  'Sin  to  die.' " 

It  is  true,  Rachel!  If  I  had  minded  what  the  street 
said,  I  might  still  have  lived  in  sinful  luxury  and  lost 
my  soul.  For,  you  see,  there  were  some  of  his  old  com 
pany  keepers  met  me  sometimes.  I  would  not  follow 
the  counsel  of  the  street.  I  thought  I  was  less  wicked 
to  yield  to  the  river.  And  so,  that  desperate  night,  I 
was  about  to  throw  myself  into  it,  when  I  was  pre 
vented  by  my  old  grandmother,  bless  her!" 

"Oh!  how  I  thank  Heaven  that  you  were  saved  from 
such  a  fearful,  fatal  deed,  Rosy !"  said  Rachel,  shudder 
ing. 

"So  do  I.  For,  Rachel,  since  I  returned  home  here,  I 
have  thought  over  my  past  sins  and  follies ;  and  I  have 
bitterly,  profoundly  repented  them.  But,  oh!  Rachel, 
of  all  the  sins  I  ever  committed,  my  sins  against  that 
poor  boy  there  trouble  me  the  most !" 

"Against  Benny?" 

"Ay,  against  him — the  little  angel  soul !" 

"Why,  I  can  hardly  believe  you.  What  have  you 
done  to  Benny?" 

"I  let  him  beg  for  me.  That  was  not  so  bad,  perhaps. 
But  I  let  him  steal  for  me!  And  when  he  brought  me 
a  loaf  of  bread  he  had  'hooked'  from  a  baker,  or  a  par 
cel  of  tea  he  had  stolen  from  a  grocer's  counter,  or  an 
orange  or  a  cucumber  from  the  market,  I  hugged  and 
kissed  him,  and  praised  and  petted  him,  and  made  be 
lieve  he  was  such  a  good  boy,  and  had  done  so  well! 
And,  oh!  to  think  that  he  is  now  down  with  the  fever, 
and  out  of  his  head,  and  I  cannot  say  to  him,  'Benny, 
I  was  a  hungry,  thirsty,  wicked  woman !  I  was  a  long 
ing,  selfish  woman,  and  I  told  you  what  wasn't  true!' 


THE  LOST  HEIE  229 

Oh,  Rachel,  the  worst  sting  of  sin  is  the  thought  that 
we  cannot  undo  the  wrong  we  have  done!" 

"But  Christ  can  undo  it,"  said  Rachel,  reverently. 

"Yes,  He!  He  can  do  all  things.  He  who  pardoned 
the  Magdalen  at  His  feet — He  who  pardoned  the  thief 
on  the  cross,  He  can  cleanse  my  soul  of  its  sins,  and 
undo  all  my  wrongdoings.  Beloved  and  blessed  be  His 
name  forever,"  said  Rose,  in  a  meek  and  fervent  tone. 

Then  she  lay  some  time,  as  if  much  exhausted. 

Presently  she  said: 

"Bring  my  poor  babe  to  me,  Rachel,  dear;  I  would 
like  to  see  him  and  kiss  him  once  more." 

Rachel  tenderly  lifted  the  sleeping  babe  and  brought 
him  to  his  dying  mother. 

Rose  attempted  to  take  him  in  her  arms,  but  her 
strength  was  gone.  She  sighed  and  let  her  arms  falL 

Then  Rachel  held  the  babe  very  close  to  his  mother's 
face.  And  Rose  kissed  him  and  patted  his  cheeks.  And 
the  babe  waked  and  opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  her. 

"How  clean  and  comfortable  he  is!  That  is  your 
doing,  dear  Rachel,"  she  murmured. 

"Mrs.  Kempton  lent  me  a  suit  of  baby  linen  for  pres 
ent  use.  And  I  am  making  some  up  now  for  future 
occasions,"  answered  Rachel. 

"Bless  you,  dear !    Bless  you !"  murmured  Rose. 

Then  she  kissed  her  child  again,  murmured  a  prayer 
for  him,  and  let  Rachel  take  him  back  to  his  cradle. 

"I  trust  my  orphan  child  to  Him  who  blessed  little 
children.  I  trust  my  sinful  soul  to  Him  who  pardoned 
the  Magdalen  and  the  thief.  Good-night,  dear  Rachel ; 
I  am  going  to  sleep." 

These  were  the  last  words  of  the  poor  ballet  dancer, 
She  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  and  closed  her  eyes,  as 
if  in  slumber. 


230  THE  LOST  HEIR 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

VISIT. 

The  short  winter  afternoon  was  closing  in. 

Rachel  kept  the  room  very  quiet,  that  the  sleeper 
might  not  be  disturbed. 

Presently  Judy  Malony  returned  in  a  bustle  of  indig 
nation  against  the  officers  of  the  dispensary. 

"Sure,  and  I  couldn't  get  back  any  suner,"  she  said. 
"Bedad,  and  the  place  was  that  full  of  poor  craytures 
all  after  physic,  as  you'd  thought  the  chollery  had 
broken  out,  and  aich  one  was  worse  than  the  other  wid 
it.  And  sure  I  lifted  up  my  voice  and  screamed  out 
to  the  man  behind  the  counter  that  the  girl  and  the 
boy  were  kilt  intirely  for  the  want  ov  the  physic  I'd 
come  for.  Divil  a  bit  would  he  mind  me!  And  divil 
a  bit  would  the  other  spalpeens  make  way  for  me! 
And  so,  bedad,  and  I  had  to  wait  my  turn  before  ever  I 
could  get  the  physic.  But  here  it  is  at  last,  me  dar- 
lint!"  said  Judy,  triumphantly,  producing  the  medi 
cine. 

And  she  would  have  gone  on  talking  in  her  excited 
manner,  if  Rachel  had  not  warned  her  to  keep  quiet 
and  not  disturb  the  sleepers. 

"Rose  is  sleeping  more  peacefully  than  she  has  done 
since  I  have  been  here,"  added  Rachel. 

So  she  lighted  a  tallow  candle  and  sat  it  on  the  man 
tel-shelf,  behind  an  old  jug  for  a  shade. 

And  then  she  and  Judy  sat  down  to  wait  the  arrival 
of  the  doctor. 

He  soon  came,  and  inquired  of  Rachel  whether  she 
had  administered  the  medicines  to  the  patients. 

"I  have  almost  just  got  the  medicines.  And  they  are 
both  sleping  so  quietly  now  that  I  thought  I  would  not 
disturb  them." 

"You  were  quite  right,"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  went 
up  to  the  bedside  to  examine  the  girl. 

He  took  up  her  hand  very  gently,  so  as  to  feel  her 


THE  LOST  HEIR  231 

pulse,  if  possible,  without  waking  her.  He  dropped  her 
hand  almost  instantly. 

"Why,  the  girl  is  dead!'  he  said. 

"Dead!"  echoed  Kachel,  shocked,  even  though  she 
had  been  all  day  long  expecting  this  death. 

"Dead!  Och  hone!  Och  hone!"  wailed  Judy  Ma- 
lony. 

"Who's  dead  now?  Stop  your  howling,  can't  you? 
You  Irish  always  'wake'  the  dead.  And  faith,  wake 
them  you  would,  if  the  dead  could  be  waked  at  all!" 
growled  the  old  woman,  only  half-roused  to  a  conscious 
ness  of  what  was  going  on,  and  then  relapsing  into  im 
becility  again. 

"This  girl  has  been  dead  for  at  least  half  an  hour," 
said  the  doctor,  after  having  made  a  further  examina 
tion  of  the  body. 

Rachel  Wood  quietly  approached  the  bedside,  ten 
derly  turned  the  body  over  on  its  back,  and  reverently 
closed  the  dead  eyes,  holding  her  fingers  on  the  lids  to 
keep  them  down. 

"I  will  notify  the  proper  officer  to  send  the  parish 
undertaker  here  to  attend  to  the  funeral.  To-morrow 
morning  the  sick  child  will  be  removed  to  the  hospital, 
and  the  old  woman  to  the  Union.  Meanwhile,  give  the 
child  the  medicine  as  directed/'  said  the  doctor,  as  he 
took  leave. 

The  girls  remained  a  few  minutes  longer  standing 
silently  by  the  bedside.  Then  Rachel  Wood  said: 

"Light  another  candle,  Judy.  We  must  have  light 
enough  to  see  to  do  our  duty  by  this  poor  clay.  And  set 
a  chair  with  a  shawl  over  its  back,  to  keep  the  light 
from  hurting  Benny's  head." 

The  Irish  girl  silently  obeyed  all  these  directions. 

"Now,  Judy,  help  me  to  draw  this  bedstead  out  into 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  so  that  we  can  get  around  it  to 
lay  out  the  body,"  added  Rachel  Wood. 

And  they  drew  the  bedstead  into  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  then  in  silence  began  their  solemn  work. 

The  room  was  very  still. 

The  old  woman  in  the  chimney  corner  had  fallen 
asleep,  with  her  head  dropped  upon  her  chest. 


232  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Benny  had  ceased  his  moans,  and  lay  in  a  deep  com 
atose  state. 

Even  the  babe  was  perfectly  quiet. 

The  court  outside  was  unusually  still. 

Its  inhabitants  could  not  have  known  what  had  oc 
curred  in  this  house,  yet  it  seemed  as  if  even  the  un 
known  presence  of  Death  had  been  felt  by  them,  and 
stilled  their  usual  turbulence. 

But  while  the  two  girls  were  busy  with  their  mourn 
ful  work,  the  decent  quietness  of  the  court  was  broken 
by  ribald  songs  and  laughter,  by  irregular  fotsteps, 
and  by  a  young  man's  voice  saying  to  the  singer : 

"Stow  that,  Sidney.  I'm  blest  if  you  won't  have  the 
police  on  us." 

"You  talk  of  police!  And  rebuke — hie! — a  gentle 
man  for  amusing  himself  in  his  own  way!  I'm  an  of 
ficer  and  a  gentleman — hie ! — and  I  want  to  know  what 
the  deuce  you  have  brought  me  into  this  blamed  place 
for?" 

"Why?  Why,  I've  just  got  wind  that  a  fugitive  little 
friend  of  mine  lives  somewhere  hereabout.  Jove!  I 
must  have  been  very  drunk  that  day  I  married  her!  I 
haven't  seen  the  little  puss  since  that  morning  I  had  to 
cut  and  run  without  saying  good-by.  Ever  since  I  came 
back  I  have  been  looking  her  up,  and  only  to-night  I 
got  news  that  she  was  living  hereabout.  Oh,  I  say! 
here's  a  light  in  this  house.  Let's  go  in  and  inquire." 

The  two  girls  engaged  in  laying  out  the  dead  body 
had  just  heard  this  much  when  the  door  was  pushed 
rudely  open,  and  two  reeling  men  entered. 

"Can  you  tell  me "  began  the  younger,  when  sud 
denly  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  half-undressed,  emaciated 
corpse  of  his  once  beautiful  young  victim,  as  it  lay  on 
the  poor  bed  under  the  hands  of  its  dressers. 

He  started  back,  turned  deadly  pale,  glared  for  an 
instant  at  the  vision,  and  then  threw  his  hands  to  his 
head,  and,  with  a  low  cry  of  horror,  rushed  from  the 
room.  His  companion  sobered  by  the  sight  he  had 
seen,  hurried  out  to  look  after  him. 

All  this  had  transpired  without  a  word  spoken  be 
tween  the  parties  in  the  room. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  233 

But  Rachel  Wood  had  noted  both  the  men,  and  felt 
sure  that  she  should  always  be  able  to  recognize  either 
of  them. 

"Faix!  and  that  was  very  queer  itself !"  whispered 
Judy,  cautiously,  breaking  the  solemn  silence. 

"It  was  strange,"  admitted  Rachel. 

"And  sure  I'm  thinking  they  were  both  beastly 
drunk." 

"They  were  neither  of  them  quite  sober." 

"Will  I  fasten  the  door  to  perwent  any  other  spal 
peens  from  coming  in  to  mislest  us?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  Rachel  Wood. 

And  Judy  was  about  to  lock  the  door,  when  it  was 
gently  pushed  open  in  her  face,  and  Mary  Kempton  en 
tered  with  a  heavy  basket  on  her  arm. 

"I  could  not  come  before.  Mrs.  Melliss  slept  late  in 

the  day,  and Oh!  good  gracious  me  alive!  is  she 

really  gone,  then?"  exclaimed  Mary  Kempton,  cutting 
short  her  explanations  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure 
of  the  dead  girl. 

"She  died  at  seven  this  evening,"  gravely  replied  Ra 
chel  Wood. 

Mary  Kempton  put  down  the  basket  and  seated  her 
self  on  the  solitary  chair  the  poor  room  possessed,  and 
she  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  said : 

"I  am  too  late  with  these  things.  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
could  not  help  it;  and,  after  all,  maybe  she  could  not 
have  taken  them.  But  Mrs.  Melliss  came  home  very 
early  this  morning  from  the  duchess'  ball,  and  went  im 
mediately  to  bed,  and  slept  until  late,  so  that  I  did  not 
see  her  until  near  four  o'clock  this  afternoon.  And 
then  she  had  to  have  her  tea,  and  then  to  dress  for  din 
ner,  which  brought  it  up  to  near  six  o'clock  before  I 
felt  free  to  tell  her  about  poor  Rosy  Flowers.  And  then 
she  had  to  send  for  the  housekeeper  and  order  all  these 
wines  and  jellies  and  things  to  be  packed  up,  to  send 
by  me,  so  it  was  seven  o'clock  before  I  got  off." 

"Do  not  distress  yourself,  Mary.  She  could  not  have 
taken  anything  you  brought,  even  if  you  had  got  here 
at  noon,"  said  Rachel. 


234  THE  LOST  HEIE 

"And,  oh,  tell  me!  Did  she  die  like  a  heathen?  or 
did  she— did  she " 

And  Mary  Kempton  broke  down  and  wept. 

"Do  not  weep  for  her,  dear  Mary.  She  was  not  the 
great  sinner  we  supposed.  She  was  only  foolish  and 
vain.  But  in  poverty,  illness  and  desertion,  the  Spirit 
of  the  Lord  was  dealing  with  her.  She  died  very  peni 
tent  and  very  hopeful,"  said  Rachel. 

"I  thank  Heaven  for  that!  That  is  a  very  great  re 
lief  to  our  minds.  And  now,  what  about  this  poor  child 
— this  poor  little  Benny?  Do  you  think  he  could  take 
a  little  of  this  jelly? 

"Oh,  no !  Look  at  him !  He  is  lying  in  a  deep  stupor. 
I  have  been  waiting  for  him  to  awake,  to  give  him  his 
medicine.  But  he  seems  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper  into 
stupor.  And  I  am  afraid  to  rouse  him,  lest  he  should 
fall  into  convulsions  and  die.  It's  a  tender  case  to 
treat.  But  he's  to  be  removed  to  the  children's  ward 
of  the  Middlesex  Hospital  to-morrow,  and  there  he  will 
have  the  best  medical  attention." 

As  Kachel  Wood  spoke  she  smoothed  the  sheet  over 
the  corpse,  and  thus  finished  her  work  there. 

Then  she  went  and  sat  by  the  pallet  of  little  Benny, 
and  renewed  the  cold  water  applications  to  his  burn 
ing  head. 

Just  at  this  time  the  old  woman  aroused,  and  said 
she  was  hungry,  and  began  to  cry  like  a  child  for  some 
thing  to  eat. 

Mary  Kempton  took  the  bread  and  butter  and  jelly 
from  her  basket,  and  filled  a  plate  and  put  it  on  the 
poor  old  creature's  lap. 

She  devoured  the  food  greedily,  and  more  after  the 
manner  of  a  starving  animal  than  a  human  being. 

Mary  Kempton  then  poured  out  some  wine  and  water 
and  gave  it  to  her. 

And  after  that  the  old  creature  laid  down  on  the 
floor  before  the  fire  and  went  to  sleep. 

Kachel  Wood  rolled  up  her  shawl  and  put  it  under 
the  gray  head  for  a  pillow. 

Mary  Kempton  covered  the  withered  form  with  her 
cloak. 


THE  LOST  HEIK  235 

That  was  the  best  the  girls  could  do  for  Granny 
Flowers. 

And  they  thought  the  sooner  the  helpless  old  body 
could  be  taken  to  the  Union,  the  better  for  her. 

Mournfully  the  night  passed. 

The  girls,  weary  with  the  second  night's  watching, 
slept  at  intervals,  but  were  frequently  roused  by  the 
crying  of  the  baby,  or  the  delirious  mutterings  of  little 
Benny. 

Morning  dawned  at  length — a  bright  morning  for  the 
season. 

By  its  light  they  looked  at  little  Benny,  and  saw  that 
a  change  like  the  shadow  of  death  had  come  over  his 
face. 

Their  hearts  sank  with  fear  for  the  child  whom 
they  all  loved,  and  they  wished  and  prayed  for  the 
speedy  arrival  of  the  parish  doctor. 

JuJy  Malony  put  on  the  teakettle  and  prepared  for 
a  frugal  breakfast  for  the  watchers. 

They  had  scarcely  got  through  it  when  the  doctor 
looked  in,  accompanied  by  the  parish  officer  who  was 
to  attend  to  the  three  needful  duties — the  removal  of 
the  sick  child  to  the  hospital,  the  committal  of  the  old 
woman  to  the  Union,  and  the  interment  of  the  dead  girl 
in  the  paupers'  burial-ground. 

The  wretched  inhabitants  of  the  court,  who  had  now 
got  news  of  what  had  happened  in  Granny  Flowers' 
hut,  crowded  around  the  house,  and  would  have  poured 
into  it,  had  they  not  been  kept  back  by  the  parish 
officer. 

A  litter  had  been  brought  for  the  removal  of  little 
Benny,  and  he  was  soon  tenderly  placed  upon  it  and 
carried  away. 

A  few  minutes  later  on,  the  workhouse  van  called  for 
Granny  Flowers. 

She  had  to  be  waked  up  from  her  sleep  on  the  floor, 
and  in  a  half-unconscious  condition  put  into  the  van 
and  taken  away. 

Then  the  doctor  and  the  parish  officer  left  the  court, 
saying  that  the  parish  undertaker  should  be  sent  forth 
with  to  take  charge  of  the  dead  girl's  burial. 


236  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Thus  Rachel  Wood,  Mary  Kempton  and  Judy  Malony 
were  left  with  the  corpse  and  the  infant. 

Mary  Kempton  put  on  her  cloak  and  bonnet,  and 
took  leave  of  Rachel  Wood,  saying: 

"You  know  I  must  return  to  my  duties  at  home  now. 
But  I  will  come  again  as  soon  as  I  can  get  leave.  Where 
shall  I  find  you?" 

"I  shall  stay  here  and  watch  this  poor  body  until 
they  take  it  away.  Then  I  shall  take  my  child  there," 
said  Rachel,  fondly,  pointing  to  the  rude  cradle  of  her 
adopted  baby,  "and  return  home." 

"It  will  be  a  great  charge  to  undertake,  Rachel," 
said  Mary,  gravely. 

"It  will  be  a  great  source  of  happiness  to  me.  The 
smallest  child  is  always  delighted  with  a  kitten  or  a 
bird,  or  anything  in  the  shape  of  a  pet  that  it  can  call 
its  own,  to  love.  In  a  greater  degree  I  am  deeply  de 
lighted.  I,  who  have  nothing  on  earth  to  love,  am  very 
deeply  delighted  to  have  this  child." 

"It  is  a  wonder  the  parish  officers  didn't  take  it  away 
to  the  union,  when  they  took  the  old  woman  away." 

"I  told  the  doctor  in  the  beginning  that  I  would 
adopt  the  child,  and  bring  it  up  as  my  own.  I  sup 
pose  he  made  it  all  right  with  the  officers,  or  else  he 
will  do  so;  for,  anyhow,  they  never  took  the  slightest 
notice  of  the  child,  and  never  said  a  word  to  me  about 
it." 

"Well,  good-by  till  I  see  you  again.  Judy  will  stay 
with  you,  I  suppose?" 

"Faix !  and  Judy  will !"  broke  in  the  Irish  girl,  speak 
ing  for  herself.  "It's  not  Judy  will  iver  turn  her  back 
on  a  frind  in  throuble!" 

"And  I  knew  that,  Judy,  dear.  Good-by,"  said 
Mary  Kempton.  And  she  went  her  way. 

Rachel  Wood  and  Judy  Malony  stayed  until  the  un 
dertaker  came,  and  brought  a  coffin  and  a  cart,  and 
took  away  all  that  remained  of  the  poor,  pretty  bal 
let  girl. 

They  followed  the  body  to  the  paupers'  burial- 
ground,  where  it  was  laid  in  its  humble  grave,  and 


THE  LOST  HEIR  237 

where  the  chaplain  of  the  workhouse  read  the  burial 
service. 

And  then  Eachel  Wood  took  leave  of  Judy  Malony, 
and  folded  her  adopted  baby  to  her  bosom  and  returned 
home. 

There  a  surprise  awaited  her,  which  shall  be  related 
in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE    NEW    LODGERS. 

As  Rachel  Wood,  with  the  young  child  in  her  arms, 
entered  the  house  in  Junk  lane,  she  passed  a  man  who 
was  coming  out,  and  whom  she  instantly  recognized  as 
the  broken-down  gentleman  whom  she  had  seen  with 
the  dissipated  youth  on  that  awful  night  of  the  ballet 
girl's  death. 

Quite  involuntarily  she  turned  and  gazed  after  him. 

She  saw  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  in  spite  of  his 
shabby  dress  and  reckless  bearing. 

He  was  rather  tall,  and  also  rather  stout,  but  very 
graceful.  He  had  light  auburn  hair  and  full  beard, 
merry,  laughing  blue  eyes,  regular  features,  fair,  rosy 
complexion,  and  gay,  careless  expression  of  counte 
nance,  and,  as  one  would  imagine,  a  frequent  and  jolly 
laugh. 

The  sort  of  man  of  whom  it  is  said  that  "he  is  no 
one's  enemy  but  his  own;"  the  man  that  almost  every 
one  loves,  and  almost  every  one  helps  to  ruin ;  the  man 
of  whom  people  promptly  borrow  money,  and  slowly,  if 
ever,  repay  it ;  the  man  of  whom  people  ask  favors,  and 
get  them  granted,  too,  which  they  would  not  ven 
ture  to  ask  of  any  other  person;  the  man  whom  all 
prudent,  conservative  men  dread  and  avoid,  unless  they 
want  to  use  him;  and  finally  the  man  whom  wife  or 
daughter  with  any  heart  at  all  would  love  to  the  death, 
as  this  man's  wife  loved  him. 

All  this  Rachel  saw  or  divined  in  that  one  long  gaze 
she  sent  after  him. 


238  THE  LOST  HEIE 

Then,  wondering  what  could  have  brought  such  a 
man  into  that  poor  tenement  house,  she  turned  into  the 
old-clothes  shop,  to  sit  down  and  rest  before  climbing 
the  three  flights  of  stairs  that  led  to  the  floor  on  which 
her  own  room  was  situated. 

She  found  the  old-clothes  woman  seated,  as  usual, 
behind  the  counter,  in  a  grove  of  dangling  dresses,  and 
engaged  in  needlework. 

"Lor,  Rachel !  Come  in  the  back  room  and  sit  down ! 
You  look  just  tired  to  death,  and  ready  to  drop  under 
all  them  bundles!  What  on  earth  have  you  got  wrap 
ped  up  there  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Kempton,  as  she  hastily 
got  up  and  opened  the  door  of  the  back  room,  and 
set  a  chair  for  her  weary  and  panting  visitor. 

Rachel  dropped  into  the  seat;  but  before  she  could 
get  breath  to  answer  the  woman's  question,  Mrs.  Kemp- 
ton  opened  her  mouth  again. 

"And  to  think  I  couldn't  get  to  go  to  the  funeral,  nor 
even  to  see  the  girl,  poor  thing!  before  she  died! 
though  little  good  I  could  have  done  her,  to  be  sure,  for 
she  must  a  been  past  all  that  there.  And  so  Benny  is 
sent  to  the  'ospital  and  Granny  Flowers  to  the  Union. 
And  the  bits  of  bedding  and  stuff,  which  was  all  they 
had,  was  snapped  up  by  the  landlord  for  rent.  Least 
ways  that  was  what  I  heard  from  some  o'  the  women. 
But  what  became  of  the  baby?  Was  that  sent  to  the 
Union,  too?" 

"Didn't  Mary  tell  you?"  inquired  Rachel,  in  surprise. 

"Save  us,  child!  I  han't  seen  Mary  since  that  night 
as  ever  was  when  she  went  away  long  o'  you  to  see  poor 
Rose  Flowers." 

"I  suppose  she  had  not  time  to  come  to  both  places — 
here  and  the  court,  too;  for  she  came  there  to  bring 
relief  to  the  sufferers,  and  I  thought  she  might  come 
here;  but  it  seems  she  couldn't." 

"Yes,  child;  but  what  has  become  o'  the  baby?" 
reiterated  the  woman. 

"The  baby?"  said  Rachel,  hesitating  and  blushing, 
as  if  she  was  ashamed  of  the  act  of  heavenly  charity 
she  was  doing.  "Oh,  I  have  got  the  baby.  Here  he  is." 


THE  LOST  HEIR  239 

And  she  opened  the  shawl  and  displayed  the  poor 
little  waif. 

"Poor,  dear,  lone,  lorn  little  thing!"  murmured  the 
old-clothes  woman,  gazing  at  the  infant.  "But,  my 
goodness,  gracious  me  alive!  Rachel  Wood,  whatever 
are  you  a-going  to  do  with  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  keep  it." 

"Eh?" 

"To  keep  it,  and  bring  it  up  as  my  own." 

"What?  Nonsense!  Whoever  heard  tell  on  such  a 
thing?  Why,  child  alive!  you're  hardly  able  to  keep 
yourself.  How  on  earth  will  you  ever  be  able  to  keep 
the  baby?"  inquired  the  dismayed  woman. 

"It  will  be  a  comfort  and  a  solace  to  me.  I  am  get 
ting  to  be  an  old  maid " 

"Get  out,  about  being  an  old  maid.  You  can't  be 
more'n  twenty-five  year  old,  at  most.  And  there's  many 
and  many  a  fine  young  man  as  would  like  to  court  you 
if  you'd  let  him." 

"But  I  shall  never  marry.  I  will  never  send  down 
pulmonary  consumption  to  another  generation.  So  I 
should  always  be  alone,  as  I  have  been,  but  for  this 
little  adopted  child.  And,  oh,  Mrs.  Kempton !  you  have 
no  idea  what  a  blessing  this  little  creature  will  be  to 
my  lonely  life.  Something  to  love!  something  to  love! 
for  which  I  deeply  thank  the  Lord!  As  for  the  rest, 
Mrs.  Kempton — as  for  our  keep,  I  feel  sure  of  that.  I 
have  the  Lord's  word  for  that,"  said  Rachel,  as  she 
arose  to  go  upstairs. 

"Well,  Rachel,  you're  one  in  a  thousand,  and  that's 
a  fact.  And  now  let  me  take  hold  and  help  you  to 
carry  them  bundles  upstairs.  The  child  is  enough  for 
you  to  carry." 

"Oh,  the  babe  is  very  light  and  small." 

"And  you're  similarly  thin  and  weak,  so  let  me  help 
you,"  persisted  Mrs.  Kempton,  taking  up  the  large  bas 
ket,  full  of  bundles  containing  baby  clothes  and  other 
articles  the  seamstress  had  brought  back  from  the 
court. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Rachel. 

And  they  went  upstairs  together. 


240  THE  LOST  HEIR 

When  they  got  up  to  the  fourth  floor,  Rachel  was 
surprised  to  see  the  doors  of  the  three  other  large 
rooms  that,  with  her  own,  divided  the  floor,  wide  open 
and  all  the  signs  of  recent  occupancy  within  them. 

"We  have  new  neighbors  here,"  she  said,  as  she  un 
locked  her  own  door. 

"Oh,  yes.  Let  me  come  in  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
it,"  answered  Mrs.  Kemp  ton,  following  Rachel  into  the 
room  and  dropping  into  a  chair. 

The  girl  also  sat  down  to  recover  her  breath,  after 
coming  up  all  these  flights  of  stairs. 

"You  see,  they're  none  o'  the  kind  as  usually  comes 
to  this  sort  o'  house,  or  neighborhood,  neither,  to  live. 
They're  broken-down  gentry,  as  sure's  you're  born.  And 
I'm  a-thinking  as  he's  in  hiding.  He  calls  himself  Cap- 
ting  Sydney,  though  I  can't  find  out  what  he's  captaing 
of.  But  a  rale  gent  he  is,  that's  a  fact,  broken  down 
though  he  be.  And  a  rale  lady  she!  And  five  as  pretty 
children  as  ever  you  clapped  your  two  good-looking 
eyes  on !  You  might  a-seen  him.  He  went  out  just  as 
you  come  in." 

"Then  I  did  see  him — a  tall,  stout,  fair-haired,  pleas 
ant-faced  man?" 

"Ay,  that's  him.    An't  he  handsome,  just?" 

"Yes,  but — 'he  looks  a  little  dissipated." 

"Ay,  you've  hit  it  now.  That's  just  it.  He  is  a  lit 
tle  dissipated,  poor  fellow!  Anybody  with  half  an  eye 
can  see  that.  And  that's  what  has  fetched  them  all 
down  in  the  world,  I'm  thinking.  And  my  heart  does 
ache  for  his  poor  wife  and  children.  She's  the  prettiest 
little  creetur  as  ever  you  saw.  She's  not  large  and  fair 
like  him.  She's  tall  and  slim,  with  a  dark  skin,  and 
coal-black  eyes  and  coal-black  hair.  And  the  children ! 
They  are  just  beautiful;  only,  queer  enough,  the  two 
boys  are  dark  like  she  is,  and  the  three  little  girls  are 
fair  like  he." 

"When  did  they  move  in?" 

"The  day  before  yesterday  as  ever  was.  They  hadn't 
much  help;  so  I  offered  to  lend  a  hand.  And  she 
thanked  me  so  sweetly  as  made  me  want  to  wait  on  her 


THE  LOST  HEIK  241 

all  day.  Well,  you  see,  they  an't  got  put  to  rights  yet. 
And  I  asked  her  to  call  on  me  whenever  she  wanted 
anything  as  I  could  do  for  her — and  to  let  me  know,, 
and  I  would  do  it  cheerful.  Lor',  you  see,  they  don't 
keep  no  servant.  And  now,  I  ralely  must  go  and  look 
after  the  shop,  for  there  an't  a  soul  there  to  mind  it  but 
me." 

"Why,  where  are  the  children?  I  remember,  now,  I 
didn't  see  them  when  I  was  down  in  your  room." 

"The  children?  Why,  bless  you,  Mary  sends  all  on 
'em  to  school,  and  pays  for  'em  out'n  her  wages.  Didn't 
I  tell  you  so  before?" 

"No." 

"I  forgot  to  do  it,  I  reckon.  Yes,  she  put  'em  all  to 
school,  directly  after  she  come  up  from  Brighton.  Well, 
good-day  till  I  see  you  again." 

Mrs.  Kempton  went  down  below  stairs. 

Rachel  Wood  laid  the  sleeping  child  on  the  bed,  took 
off  her  own  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  proceeded  to  make 
her  room  comfortable. 

First  she  went  to  the  corner  cupboard  and  took  from 
the  bottom  of  it  coal,  kindling  wood,  waste  paper  and 
a  box  of  matches,  and  soon  lighted  a  cheerful  fire  in  the 
grate. 

Then  she  went  down  to  the  pump,  got  a  pail  of  fresh 
water,  returned  and  filled  the  teakettle,  and  hung  it 
over  the  fire. 

She  had  brought  bread  and  other  needful  articles  of 
food  with  her.  And  she  soon  had  her  own  frugal  little 
tea-table  spread  and  the  baby's  pap  prepared. 

She  had  scarcely  finished  her  tea,  when  the  baby 
awoke  and  cried.  She  took  it  up,  and  fed  it  until  it 
was  satisfied,  and  then  dressed  it  in  clean  night  clothes, 
rocked  it  to  sleep  and  put  it  to  bed. 

Then  she  found  a  great  deal  of  cleaning  up  to  do ;  for, 
however  neat  and  nice  any  room  may  be  when  you  lock 
it  up  and  leave  it  for  a  few  days,  you  will  find  it  dusty 
enough  when  you  come  back  and  open  it. 

Rachel  sat  up  till  quite  a  late  hour,  working  hard  to 
restore  her  room  to  cleanliness  and  order. 

Then,  very  tired,  she  was  about  to  prepare  for  bed, 


242  THE  LOST  HEIR 

when  her  adopted  baby  again  awoke  and  screamed,  and 
again  had  to  be  taken  up  and  fed,  and  soothed  to  quiet 
ness  and  rocked  to  sleep. 

She  had  just  laid  her  nursling  down  on  the  bed,  and 
was  cautiously  drawing  her  hands  from  under  its  tiny 
form,  so  as  not  to  awaken  it,  when  she  was  startled  by 
a  smart  rap  at  her  door. 

She  glanced  instinctively  up  at  the  clock,  and  saw 
that  it  was  half-past  eleven. 

Then  she  went  cautiously  to  the  door,  where  the  raps 
continued  to  be  rattled  fast  and  sharply,  and  she  asked : 

"Who  is  there?" 

"It  is  I — Mrs.  Sydney,"  said  the  sweetest  voice  Ra 
chel  had  ever  heard.  "Oh,  please  open  the  door  quickly." 

Very  much  surprised,  Rachel  opened  the  door  and 
saw  standing  at  its  threshold  the  most  beautiful  little 
dark  woman  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life.  She  was 
rather  tall,  but  slender  and  graceful.  She  had  small, 
regular  features,  large  soft  black  eyes,  with  very  long, 
black  eyelashes,  and  delicately  traced  eyebrows,  and  a 
veil  of  long,  shining,  jet-black  hair,  that  hung  down 
upon  her  shoulders  in  strong  contrast  with  a  rather 
dingy  and  shabby  white  flannel  dressing  gown.  A 
broken-down  lady  Rachel  saw  at  a  glance. 

"Oh,  if  you  are  a  mother,  as  I  know  you  are,  because 
I  heard  your  baby  crying,  come  and  help  me !  My  dar 
ling  little  Freddy  is  in  spasms.  And  my  husband  has 
not  come  in,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Oh,  come 
quickly!"  she  breathlessly  exclaimed,  seizing  the  hand 
of  Rachel  and  drawing  her  out. 

Rachel  followed  the  speaker  willingly  enough,  as  she 
led  the  way  across  the  hall  to  the  large  front  room  op 
posite  her  own,  and  once  occupied  by  the  Flowers 
family. 

It  was  now  fitted  up  as  a  bedroom  only,  and  with 
Tery  shabby-genteel  chamber  furniture. 

A  single  tallow  candle  burned  on  a  little  stand  be 
side  the  crib,  and  by  its  light  Rachel  saw  lying  there  a 
child  of  about  twelve  months  old,  deadly  pale  and  rigid, 
with  wide-open,  stony  eyes. 

"Is  he  very  ill?    Is  he  in  danger?    Will  he  die?    Oh, 


THE  LOST  HEIR  243 

will  he  die?"  pasionately  questioned  the  young 
mother,  as  she  stood  with  Rachel  beside  the  crib,  gaz 
ing  at  her  child  and  wringing  her  hands. 

"No,  no,"  said  Rachel,  soothingly.  "Wait  for  me  here 
a  moment.  I  know  what  to  do." 

And  she  hurried  over  to  her  own  room,  and  soon  re 
turned  with  the  kettle  of  hot  water  from  the  hob  of  her 
grate  in  one  hand,  and  a  good-sized  washtub  in  the 
other. 

And  in  a  little  more  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it  she 
had  prepared  a  warm  bath,  undressed  the  child,  and 
put  him  into  it. 

And  soon  the  rigid  limbs  relaxed,  the  pallid  face 
flushed,  the  still  bosom  heaved,  the  suspended  breath 
came  forth  with  a  gasp  and  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  the 
pretty  eyes  softened,  closed  and  then  opened  again  with 
a  smile. 

"There,  he  is  all  right  now.  He  will  live,"  said  Ra 
chel  Wood,  as  she  lifted  the  boy  from  his  bath  and 
wrapped  him  in  a  heated  sheet,  and  took  him  to  the  fire 
to  dry  and  dress  him. 

"He  is  saved!  Oh,  thank  Heaven!  Oh;  bless  you! 
bless  you!  bless  you"  exclaimed  the  young  mother,  as 
she  followed  Rachel  to  the  fire  and  stood  watching  her 
work. 

When  Rachel  had  dressed  the  child  in  warm  night 
clothes,  and  wrapped  his  feet  in  a  piece  of  hot  flannel 
and  laid  him  in  the  crib,  she  would  have  bid  the  mother 
good-night  and  retired;  but  the  poor  little,  pretty 
woman  was  frightened  and  nervous,  and  pleaded  with 
her  to  stay  longer. 

"If  it  is  not  asking  too  much  of  you,  I  should  be  so 
greatly  obliged.  And,  you  know,  if  your  baby  should 
wake  and  cry,  you  could  hear  it  quite  distinctly  in  this 
room,  for  I  heard  it  twice  this  evening." 

"Certainly,  I  will  stay,  if  you  wish  me  to  do  so,"  said 
Rachel,  seating  herself  beside  the  crib. 

"Oh,  yes,  thanks;  I  do  wish  it.  Charley — my  hus 
band,  Captain  Sydney,  I  mean — hasn't  come  in  yet,  and 
Heaven  only  knows  when  he  will,  poor  fellow !  And  I 


244  THE  LOST  HEIR 

am  in  this  huge,  gloomy  old  place,  where  everything  is 
strange;  and  I  am  frightened  to  be  alone." 

"But  you  have  other  and  well-grown  children,  have 
you  not?"  gently  inquired  Rachel. 

"Oh,  dear,  no !  They  are  all  babies.  Look  at  them," 
said  the  young  mother,  pointing  to  a  corner  of  the  room, 
where,  across  the  low  trundle-bed,  four  little  forms  re 
posed — one  having  hair  as  black  as  jet,  and  the  others 
hair  as  red  as  gold. 

"All  babies,  indeed!"  said  Rachel,  with  an  amused 
smile. 

"Yes.  I  am  am  just  twenty-four  years  old ;  and  and  I 
have  been  married  seven  years,  and  I  have  five  children. 
The  eldest,  May,  is  six;  the  next,  Charley,  whom  we 
call  Chee,  to  distinguish  his  name  from  his  father's,  is 
four ;  Ada  is  three,  Lily  two,  and  Freddy  one  year  old. 
And  I  am  soon  expecting  another  little  one.  Think  of 
that!"  said  the  heavily-burdened  young  mother,  with 
tears  brimming  up  to  her  dark  eyes. 

"Well,  dear,"  said  Rachel,  soothingly,  "you  love  them 
when  they  come,  do  you  not?  You  would  not  part  with 
t  one  of  your  little  ones  for  the  whole  world,  would  you, 
*  now?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed !  Heaven  forbid !  I  could  bear  any 
thing  in  the  world  better  than  the  loss  of  one  of  my 
children,"  answered  the  young  mother,  with  a  shudder. 

"Then,  welcome  the  babies  when  they  come.  They 
are  God's  gifts." 

"Yes,  they  are.  How  many  have  you?  Any  but  the 
little  one  I  heard  crying?" 

Rachel  reflected  for  a  moment  whether  she  should 
tell  this  lady  the  story  of  her  adopted  child,  and  she 
decided  that  she  would  not.  She  had  taken  the  child 
as  her  own.  As  her  own  she  would  consider  it  and 
speak  of  it.  A  very  tender  sentiment  toward  this  for 
lorn  little  creature  made  her  feel  unwilling  to  seem 
to  deny  it  by  telling  every  one  that  it  was  not  her  own, 
but  an  adopted  child. 

Poor  Rachel  never  once  reflected  what  sort  of  an  ill 
construction  might  be  put  upon  her  conduct  by  those 
who  did  not  know  her  character. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  245 

"You  have  no  other  child  than  the  little  one  I  heard 
crying?"  again  inquired  Mrs.  Sydney,  repeating  the 
question,  but  varying  its  form. 

"No ;  no  other  child  but  that,"  answered  Rachel,  with 
a  smile. 

"Oh,  how  you  must  prize  that  only  one!  I  hope  it  is 
healthy  and  likely  to  live." 

"It  is  not  very  healthy  now,  but  I  shall  try  to  make 
it  so." 

"I  hope  you  will.  You  have  saved  my  boy's  life  this 
evening.  And  you  have  a  mother's  prayers  and  bless 
ings  for  that.  I  have  been  very  unfortunate  in  every 
thing  but  my  children.  Thank  Heaven,  I  have  been 
fortunate  in  them,  for  they  have  all  been  spared  to  me. 
Forgive  me  for  talking  about  myself;  but  I  have  no 
sister  or  female  friend  whatever,  nor  ever  have  had, 
though  I  always  longed  for  one.  And  your  face  seems 
to  invite  confidence.  You  also  look  as  if  you  did  not 
rightly  belong  to  this  place,  any  more  than  I  do.  You 
seem  to  have  seen  better  days,  as  I  have." 

"Yes,"  answered  Rachel.  "I  have  seen  better  days— 
and  worse  ones  than  I  now  see;  for  though  I  am  not 
as  well  off  as  I  once  was,  yet  I  have  peace  and  plenty 
of  profitable  work." 

"I  wish  I  could  say  that  of  myself.  I  wish  I  had 
peace.  I  wish  I  had  plenty  of  profitable  work,  and  was 
able  to  do  it.  But  instead  of  that  I  have  confusion. 
And  I  don't  know  how  to  work.  Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.— 
Mrs. " 

"My  name  is  Rachel  Wood.  You  will  please  call  me 
Rachel !  Everybody  calls  me  so,  and  I  am  used  to  it," 
said  the  seamstress,  gently. 

"And  I  like  the  custom.  You  look  as  if  your  name 
was  Rachel.  You  have  such  a  grave,  sweet,  tender 
face.  Ah,  Rachel,  it  is  years  since  I  saw  a  face  I  could 
confide  in  as  I  can  in  yours." 

"You  may  confide  in  me  perfectly.  I  never  betray 
confidence,"  answered  the  seamstress,  who,  without  the 
least  degree  of  a  gossip's  vulgar  curiosity,  felt  a  strange 
interest  in  this  young  creature's  story. 


246  THE  LOST  HEIR 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE     SPENDTHRIFT. 

"Well,  Rachel.  I  was  not  always  in  such  straitened 
circumstances  as  you  find  me  now.  My  father  is  one 
of  the  wealthiest  men  in  the  city,  and  I  am  his  only 
daughter." 

"You  don't  say  so!  And  he  lets  you  and  your  chil 
dren  live  in  this  place !"  exclaimed  Rachel  Wood,  in  ex 
treme  surprise. 

"He  neither  knows  nor  cares  to  inquire  where  or  how 
his  daughter  and  her  children  live,"  said  the  young 
mother,  bitterly. 

"Is  he  such  an  unnatural  parent,  then?" 

"No;  he  was  a  fond  father,  and  a  just  man.  But 
seven  years  ago  I  gave  him  the  deadliest  offense." 

"And  he  has  never  forgiven  you?" 

"No;  for  I  have  never  repented." 

"Oh,  my  dear!  never  repented  having  offended  your 
dear  father!"  exclaimed  Rachel,  in  a  shocked  tone. 

"Never  repented  the  act  that  offended  him.  So  far 
from  that,  and  knowing  as  well  as  I  now  know  all  the 
suffering  that  act  has  brought  upon  me,  if  it  were  to 
be  done  over  again,  I  would  do  it  over  again  and  dare 
the  consequences." 

"I  am  much  grieved  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"Maybe  you  would  not  be,  if  you  knew  what  that  act 
was.  It  was  just  the  act  of  marrying  my  dear  Charley ! 
You  would  not  have  me  repent  that?  You  would  not 
have  me  regret  being  the  wife  of  my  seven  years'  hus 
band,  and  the  mother  of  our  five  beautiful  children?" 

"No,  no.  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that,"  said  Rachel, 
hastily.  "But,  my  dear,  have  you  ever  sought  a  recon 
ciliation  with  your  father?" 

"Have  I  ever?  Often  and  often  and  often.  I  have 
written  to  him  and  sent  to  him,  but  without  the  least 
good  effect." 

"It  is  strange  and  sad  that  a  father  should  be  so  im 
placable,"  said  Rachel,  with  a  sympathetic  sigh. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  247 

"No,  it  isn't.  You  wouldn't  think  so,  if  you  knew 
all." 

''Then  you  know  some  reason  for  his  implacability?" 

"Ah !  do  I  not?  Ah,  Kachel,  it  is  the  old,  old  reason, 
old  as  the  hills !  Old  as  sin,  old  as  Satan,  old  as  selfish 
ness!  It  is  a  stepmother,  my  good  Rachel — a  step 
mother,  the  natural  enemy  of  all  her  husband's  children 
who  are  not  her  own !  A  stepmother !  well  named  step 
mother,  for  she  steps  upon  the  children's  necks  to  reach 
their  rightful  inheritance,  whether  of  father's  love  or 
father's  money." 

Rachel  was  silent,  for  she  thought  of  one  young  step 
mother  so  different  from  this  one  of  whom  the  lady 
spoke — of  one  young  stepmother  who  was  the  best 
friend  of  her  elderly  husband's  son  and  daughter. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Sydney  went  on : 

"When  I  married  my  poor  Charley,  my  father  was  a 
widower,  as  he  had  been  for  many  years.  He  was  not 
considered  a  marrying  man.  But  some  old  maid  or 
other — I  know  she  must  have  been  quite  old,  for  she  has 
had  no  children,  and  therefore,  indeed,  there  is  the  less 
excuse  for  her  conduct  in  keeping  alive  my  father's  re 
sentment  against  me — some  old  maid  or  other,  painted 
and  powdered  and  curled,  enameled  and  made  'beauti 
ful  forever,'  as  the  false  phrase  goes,  took  advantage  of 
my  dear  father's  anger  against  me,  and  flattered  and 
fascinated  and  married  him  within  three  months  after 
he  had  discarded  me.  And  from  the  time  of  her  mar 
riage,  as  I  do  truly  believe,  she  has  set  herself  earnestly 
to  keep  me  and  my  dear  father  apart.  What's  the  use 
of  talking  about  it?  It  is  the  way  of  stepmothers!" 

Again  Rachel  was  silent,  for  she  was  thinking  of  an 
other  stepmother,  a  young  and  lovely  stepmother, 
placed  in  very  much  the  same  position  as  this  elderly, 
self-seeking  woman  of  the  world,  and  who  was  doing 
her  utmost  to  reconcile  her  husband  to  his  discarded 
daughter,  and  who  had  been  doing  so  for  years — in 
vain!  But  Rachel  said  nothing.  Mrs.  Melliss'  confi 
dence  was  too  sacred  to  be  tampered  with. 
"I  am  as  fully  convinced  as  if  I  had  seen  her  do  it 


248  THE  LOST  HEIR 

that  she  intercepted  and  destroyed  all  my  letters  and 
Charley's  letters  to  my  dear  father.  And  that  she  used 
arts,  of  the  nature  of  which  I  cannot  even  guess — no 
honest  mind  could  ever  guess — to  alienate  his  love  and 
harden  his  heart  against  me !  Rachel,  my  father  was  a 
fond  father,  and  a  just  man.  And  what  is  more  than  all 
that,  as  charity  is  greater  than  faith  or  hope,  my  dear 
father  was  and  is  a  charitable  man.  He  judges  the 
faults  of  others  leniently;  that,  I  take  it,  is  the  spirit 
ual  phase  of  charity.  And  he  relieves  the  necessities  of 
others  liberally;  that  is  the  material  form  of  charity. 
Yet,  Rachel,  I  have  been  suffering  with  cold  and  hunger, 
I  and  my  children.  And  I  have  written  to  my  father 
and  told  him  so,  and  implored  his  forgiveness,  and  his 
help  for  my  perishing  babes ;  and  I  have  taken  care  that 
these  letters  should  be  delivered  at  his  door.  And  yet 
I  have  had  no  answer !  My  stepmother,  of  course,  inter 
cepted  the  letters.  It  is  the  time-honored  custom  of 
stepmothers!  It  is  the  role  of  stepmothers.  It  is  their 
fiendish  mission  on  earth,"  said  the  young  mother  and 
discarded  child,  speaking  with  bitter  hatred. 

And  still  Rachel  said  nothing.  She  was  still  think 
ing  of  Mrs.  Melliss,  who  was  placed  in  a  similar  situa 
tion  between  her  husband  and  his  offending  daughter, 
and  yet  whose  conduct  was  so  different  from  the  con 
duct  of  this  person  whom  Mrs.  Sydney  described. 

Meanwhile,  the  young  wife  went  on : 

"Strangers  were  kinder  to  me  than  my  own  flesh  and 
blood.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  help  of  strangers,  I 
should  have  suffered  even  more  than  I  have.  I  was  liv 
ing  in  barracks  with  my  poor  Charley  when  my  first 
child,  little  May,  was  born.  He  had  but  two  small 
rooms  for  his  quarters,  and  he  was  not  able  to  take 
lodgings  for  me  in  town.  I  wrote  to  my  father  and 
begged  his  forgiveness,  and  told  him  my  condition ;  but 
he  would  have  no  mercy  on  his  daughter  or  his  ex 
pected  grandchild.  But,  of  course,  I  know  he  never 
got  my  letter.  His  wife  intercepted  and  destroyed  it. 
And  I  should  have  wanted  everything  necessary  for 
that  trying  time,  if  it  had  not  been  for  some  kind 
friend  who  sent  me  a  complete  outfit  of  invalid's  and 


THE  LOST  HEIK  249 

baby's  linen,  and  also  a  note  for  fifty  pounds.  That  out 
fit,  Rachel,  has  lasted  me  these  six  years,  and  has 
served  me  and  all  my  five  babies  in  turn.  Look  at  this 
white  flannel  dressing  gown  I  am  now  wearing.  This 
was  an  item  in  that  invalid  outfit.  It  was  very  elegant 
once;  but  it  is  old  and  shabby  and  not  overclean  now. 
That  is  the  worst  of  it.  Poor  ladies  are  the  most 
wretched  of  poor  women !  They  do  not  know  how  to  do 
their  own  washing,  and  they  cannot  afford  to  put  much 
of  it  out.  I  can  wash  small  articles,  like  pocket  hand 
kerchiefs  and  collars,  but  such  a  thing  as  a  dressing 
gown  would  be  too  heavy  for  me  to  work  in  the  tub.  I 
should  only  spoil  it." 

Rachel  sighed  with  pity  for  the  utter  helpfulness  of 
this  poor  wife  and  mother. 

"I  do  believe  my  kind  anonymous  friends  would  have 
continued  to  help  me,  had  they  been  able  to  keep  trace 
of  us.  But  poor  Charley  left  the  army,  and  we  went 
to  the  Continent,  and  since  that  we  have  been  wander 
ing  about.  Now,  my  good  Rachel,  I  have  talked  to  you 
as  freely  as  if  I  had  known  you  all  my  life.  But  there 
are  some  people  one  does  feel  that  way  toward.  And 
now  tell  me  what  you  think  of  all  this  that  I  have  told 
you,"  concluded  the  little  lady  with  a  sigh. 

"I  think,  my  dear,  that  a  reconciliation  with  your 
father  is  not  at  all  hopeless,"  said  the  seamstress. 

"Not  at  all  hopeless!  And  with  a  treacherous  step 
mother  at  his  ear  all  the  time!"  hastily  interrupted 
Mrs.  Sydney. 

"I  think,  my  dear,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should 
admit  just  the  bare  possibility  that  the  stepmother 
may  not  be  to  blame  in  this  matter ;  and  that  the  father 
may  be  waiting  for  some  acknowledgment  from  you 
of  your  fault  toward  him,"  said  Rachel,  gently. 

The  young  lady  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"How  can  I  do  that?  I  have  asked  him  to  forgive 
me.  I  can  do  no  more.  I  cannot  repent  having  mar 
ried  my  dear  Charley,  bless  him!  And  so  how  can  I 
write  as  if  I  did?" 

"I  will  tell  you,  my  dear.  You  might  write  again  to 
your  father  and  tell  him  that  though  you  could  not 


250  THE  LOST  HEIR 

repent  your  marriage  with  a  husband  you  have  never 
ceased  to  love  dearly,  yet  you  were  grieved  for  the  man 
ner  of  it  which  proved  so  offensive  to  him.  And  then 
once  more  ask  for  forgiveness  and  reconciliation,"  said 
Rachel. 

"That  would  be  very  hard  for  me  to  do.  I  do  not 
like  to  be  a  persistent  beggar,  even  to  my  own  father, 
or  for  my  own  poor  children's  sake.  I  think  I  have 
written  often  enough." 

"Yet  not  in  the  way  I  now  advise.  Write  once 
more,  as  I  counsel  you.  And  if  you  please,  I  will  be 
your  messenger  and  take  it  to  your  father,  and  put  it 
with  my  own  hands  into  his  hands.  It  cannot  do  the 
least  harm.  It  may  do  the  greatest  good,"  pleaded 
Rachel  Wood. 

"Oh,  you  are  so  kind  to  me,  I  will  take  your  advice. 
I  will,  indeed.    I  will  lose  no  time.     I  will  write  to 
-morrow.     Do  you  know  where  my  father  lives?" 

"No,  indeed;  I  do  not  even  know  who  he  is.  You 
have  not  mentioned  his  name,"  said  Rachel,  smiling. 

"Oh,  no;  so  I  did  not.  I  only  told  you  he  was  one 
of  the  wealthiest  men  in  London.  Well,  his  name 

is Oh,  dear,  here  comes  my  poor  Charley,  not 

himself  again,"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  young  wife, 
breaking  off  in  her  discourse,  as  a  man  was  heard 
-  walking  up  the  hall,  and  singing  as  he  came  a  frag 
ment  of  a  festive  song. 

"Hallo!"  exclaimed  Captain  Sydney,  cutting  short 
his  song,  as  he  opened  the  door  and  discovered  his  wife 
still    sitting   up,    and    a   strange    woman    with    her. 
"Hallo!     What's  the  matter,  Molly?    Nothing  wrong, 
I  hope?"  he  inquired,  half -sobered  by  what  he  saw. 

"No,  Charley,  dear;  nothing  wrong  now.  Poor  little 
Freddy  has  been  very  ill.  But  this  kind  neighbor  came 
in  and  put  him  in  a  hot  bath,  which  relieved  him;  and 
he  has  been  sleeping  nicely  ever  since,"  she  said. 

And  not  a  word  of  reproach  did  she  utter,  and  not 
even  an  injured  look  did  she  put  on. 

"Good  Heaven!  What  an  infernal  brute  I  am,  to 
stay  out  so  late  and  leave  you  alone !  But  when  I  get 
with  those  fellows " 


THE  LOST  HEIR  251 

"Yes,  I  know,  Charley  dear,"  she  said,  hastily  inter 
rupting  him.  Then  she  turned  to  Rachel,  and  with 
sweet,  grave  courtesy,  thanked  her  again  for  her  serv 
ices. 

And  the  seamstress,  taking  this  as  a  gentle  hint  to 
retire,  bade  good-night  and  returned  to  her  room. 

The  next  day  Rachel  waited  indoors  all  the  morn 
ing,  fully  expecting  that  Mrs.  Sydney  would  come  with 
the  promised  letter,  for  her  to  take  to  that  lady's 
father.  But  Rachel  waited  long  in  vain. 

The  day  was  cold,  so  Rachel  kept  her  room  door 
shut,  and  kept  up  a  warm  fire  in  her  grate,  at  which 
she  sat  and  sewed  steadily,  for  her  needlework  had 
got  very  much  behindhand  during  the  days  of  her  at 
tendance  upon  the  deathbed  of  the  poor  ballet  girl. 

The  young  babe  gave  her  but  little  trouble.  It  lay 
upon  the  bed  and  slept  as  steadily  as  babes  of  that 
tender  age  will  do,  waking  only  to  be  fed  and  put  to 
sleep  again. 

Rachel  listened,  not  in  idle  curiosity,  but  with  benev 
olent  interest,  to  hear  some  sound  from  the  opposite 
room. 

The  house  seemed  very  different  to  her,  now  that 
the  old  lodgers  had  gone  away  and  these  new  people 
had  come  in. 

Instead  of  the  noisy  tread  and  brutal  oaths  of  Tony 
Brice,  Jerry  Juniper,  and  the  shrill  scolding  of  Madge 
and  the  perpetual  wrangling  of  old  Ruth  Drug  and  old 
Granny  Flowers,  was  only  the  patter  of  children's  feet 
and  the  music  of  children's  voices  as  they  played  in  the 
hall. 

The  place  was  like  heaven  to  what  it  had  been. 

Once  Rachel  opened  the  door  and  looked  out  upon 
them. 

They  were  four  as  lovely  children  as  were  ever  seen; 
but  oh,  so  shabbily  dressed ! 

There  were  two  little  red-haired  girls  and  two  little 
black-haired  boys.  The  youngest  child  was  not  there. 

The  eldest  child,  a  golden-haired  fairy  of  six  sum 
mers,  seeing  Rachel  standing  in  the  door  and  looking 


252  THE  LOST  HEIR 

out  at  their  play,  ran  frankly  up  to  her  to  make  an 
apology,  or  to  give  an  explanation. 

"If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  hope  we  don't  disturb  you. 
Our  mamma  sent  us  out  here  because  poor  papa  is  ill, 
quite  ill,  with  brown  paper  and  vinegar  on  his  head, 
and  he  can't  bear  our  noise." 

"You  don't  disturb  me,  my  dear;  I  like  to  see  you 
enjoy  yourselves.  Go  on  and  play  as  much  as  you 
please,"  said  Eachel,  kindly,  as  she  returned  to  her 
room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Now  she  understood  why  it  was  that  Mrs.  Sydney 
had  not  made  her  appearance  with  the  promised  letter. 
Of  course,  she  had  had  no  opportunity  of  writing  it. 
Captain  Sydney,  after  his  night  of  revelry  and  dissipa 
tion,  was  suffering  under  the  usual  penal  headache. 
And  his  poor  little,  adoring  wife  was  in  close  attend 
ance  upon  him. 

Her  heart  ached  for  the  sufferings  of  that  young 
wife,  with  the  superstitious  love  for  the  gay  and  hand 
some  brute  who  had  ruined  her  fortunes  and  almost 
destroyed  her  peace. 

She  no  longer  wondered  at  the  implacability  of  the 
father.  And,  furthermore,  she  felt  utterly  discouraged 
as  to  the  probable  result  of  the  daughter's  promised 
letter,  which  she  herself  had  offered  to  take  to  the 
father  with  such  confident  hopes  of  success. 

She  now  thought  it  more  than  likely  that  the  dis 
gusted  father  would  make  it  an  absolute  condition 
of  his  forgiveness  that  his  daughter  should  separate 
herself  from  her  husband. 

And  that,  Rachel  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Sydney  would 
never  do. 

While  thus  Rachel  sat  and  sewed  and  ruminated,  the 
door  was  quietly  opened,  and  the  banker's  young  wife, 
Mrs.  Melliss,  entered  the  room. 

The  lady  was  very  plainly  dressed,  with  a  common 
waterproof  tweed  cloak  that  covered  her  whole  gown, 
while  its  hood  was  drawn  up  over  her  little  hat. 

She  looked  quite  disguised. 

Rachel  arose  in  astonishment,  as  well  as  with  pleas 
ure,  to  meet  her. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  253 

CHAPTEK  XXXIII. 

A    BENEFACTOR. 

"Mrs.  Melliss!"  exclaimed  Rachel  Wood,  as  she 
hastily  arose,  and  laid  the  babe  upon  the  bed. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me  here,  Rachel,"  said  the 
banker's  wife,  smiling. 

"On  such  a  wet  day,  yes,  madam ;  but  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you.  I  hope  you  will  not  take  cold,"  replied  the 
seamstress,  as  she  relieved  the  lady  of  her  dripping 
water-proof  cloak,  hung  it  up  to  dry,  and  set  a  chair  to 
the  fire  for  her  visitor. 

"Oh,  I  am  not  at  all  susceptible  to  cold,"  answered 
Mrs.  Melliss,  as  she  sank  into  the  offered  seat,  and 
set  her  feet  up  on  the  fender. 

At  this  moment  the  baby,  dissatisfied  with  being 
left  upon  the  bed,  set  up  a  shrill  squall. 

"Oh,  do  take  it  up  and  bring  it  here  for  me  to  look 
at,  dear,"  said  the  banker's  wife,  turning  quickly  to 
ward  the  child. 

The  seamstress  complied  with  the  request. 

"Rachel,"  said  the  lady,  as  she  looked  from  the  feeble 
young  child  to  the  face  of  the  poor  girl  who  had  taken 
it — "Rachel,  I  have  heard  all  about  your  adoption  of 
this  poor  babe.  Mary  Kempton  told  me.  Dear  Rachel, 
I  think  it  is  a  heavenly  act." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Melliss,  do  not  speak  of  it  in  that  way, 
please.  I  am  as  proud  of  the  possession  of  this  little 
creature  as  ever  a  child  was  of  a  pet  bird.  It  is  some 
thing  to  love  and  care  for  and  raise,"  replied  Rachel. 

"Well,  my  dear,  the  burden  must  not  rest  on  you 
alone.  You  must  let  me  help  you  to  bear  it." 

"Dear  madam,  I  do  not  feel  this  as  a  burden  at  all. 
I  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  rear  the  child  by  my  own 
exertions.  If  not,  there  is  no  one  living  I  would  call 
on  to  help  me  so  quickly  as  yourself." 

"That  is  right,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  sigh.  And 
then  she  fell  into  thought,  and  gazed  silently  into  the 
fire. 


254  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Dear  Mrs.  Melliss,"  said  the  seamstress,  at  last, 
"you  did  not  come  here  through  the  rain  for  nothing. 
Is  it  then,  anything  in  which  I  can  serve  you?" 

"Yes.  Rachel.  I  came  here  to  ask  your  advice  and 
assistance." 

The  seamstress  looked  interested. 

"The  truth  is,  I  have  at  length  found  a  clew  to  my 
unfortunate  stepdaughter  and  her  husband,"  continued 
Mrs.  Melliss. 

Rachel  startled  and  looked  intently  at  the  speaker, 
who  went  on  to  say: 

"I  have  reason  to  believe  that  they  are  living  in  ob 
scure  lodgings  in  this  very  neighborhood." 

"But  you  do  not  know  exactly  where?"  inquired 
the  seamstress. 

"No,  Rachel;  it  is  to  find  out  that,  that  I  require 
your  aid.  I  might  employ  a  detective,  but  I  confess  I 
do  not  like  to  do  so,  if  I  can  avoid  it.  Yet  I  am  very 
anxious  to  find  them,  for  I  have  heard  what  is  most 
likely  to  be  the  truth,  that  they  are  in  great  poverty 
and  distress." 

"Mrs.  Melliss,  what  was  your  stepdaughter's  Chris 
tian  name?"  thoughtfully  inquired  Rachel. 

"Why,  Melinda,  of  course.  Have  you  not  heard  me 
mention  it?"  smiled  the  lady. 

"Yes,  I  have,  once  or  twice;  yet  I  hoped  I  might  have 
been  mistaken." 

-Why?" 

"Nothing.  What  was  the  name  of  the  guardsman 
who  married  her,  if  you  please,  madam?" 

-What!    Did  I  never  tell  you  his  name?" 

"Never." 

"I  think  you  must  have  forgotten ;  but  his  name  was 
Faulkner." " 

"Faulkner!  Oh!"  muttered  the  seamstress,  in  a  tone 
of  disappointment. 

"Why  did  you  ask  me,  Rachel?" 

"A  fancy  that  I  had.  Nothing  more.  And  now  it 
seems  quite  unfounded.  You  are  acquainted  with  this 


THE  LOST  HEIR  255 

gentleman,  madam?  You  would  know  him  if  you 
should  see  him  ?"  inquired  Rachel. 

"I  am  not  at  all  acquainted  with  him,  yet  I  should 
know  him  if  I  should  see  him,  because  I  saw  him  once. 
My  dear  husband,  while  his  anger  was  still  very  bitter 
against  him,  pointed  him  out  to  me  in  the  park,  telling 
me  to  note  him  well,  and  when  I  should  see  another 
man  who  looked  like  that,  I  might  know  him  to  be  a 
villain.  He  quoted  Shakespeare,  you  know.  There, 
now!  I  ought  not  to  have  repeated  that!  But  really 
it  slipped  out  unawares.  Forget  it  as  soon  as  possible, 
Rachel." 

"Mrs.  Melliss,"  said  the  seamstress,  after  grave  re 
flection,  "I  must  go  back  to  that  fancy  of  mine,  of 
which  I  said  that  it  was  unfounded.  I  do  not  think  it 
was  unfounded." 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  dear  girl?" 

"I  fancy  that  the  family  you  are  in  search  of  may  be 
lodging  in  this  very  house." 

"Rachel!" 

"On  this  very  floor,  in  the  rooms  opposite  to  my 
own." 

"Tell  me  more." 

"There  is  a  poor  gentleman,  with  a  young  wife  and 
five  bits  of  children,  lodging  here.  Their  name  is  not 
Faulkner,  however ;  but  still  I  can't  help  thinking  they 
may  be  the  family  you  are  looking  for." 

"But,  good  gracious,  girl,  there  are  poor  gentlemen 
enough  besides  him.  But  who  is  he,  then?" 

"He  is  also  an  ex-guardsman." 

"Hum !  There  are  broken  officers  enough,  also.  And 
my  scamp's  name  was  Faulkner." 

"Yes;  but  there  are  other  circumstances.  This  poor 
gentleman  and  ex-guardsman,  while  he  was  yet  in  the 
service,  had  eloped  with  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy 
man." 

"Come!  That  begins  to  look  something  like  the  life 
of  my  scamp." 

"The  wealthy  father  discarded  his  only  daughter  and 
married  again,  and  has  remained  unforgiving  ever 
since." 


256  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Rachel !  Rachel !  here  is  not  only  coincidence — here 
is  identity.  This  is  the  family  I  am  looking  for,"  said 
Mrs.  Melliss,  eagerly,  and  rising  in  her  excitement. 

"But  I  am  not  so  sure,  either,"  suggested  Rachel. 
"There  are  coincidences,  indeed,  but  there  are  also  dis 
crepancies.  It  is  true  that  the  man  you  are  in  search 
of  and  the  man  who  lodges  here  are  both  poor  gentle 
men,  and  both  ex-guardsmen.  Both  ran  away  with 
only  daughters,  who  were  discarded  by  their  fatjiers, 
who  married  again  and  remained  implacable.  But  it 
is  also  true  that  the  names  are  dissimilar.  This  man's 
name  is  Captain  Charles  Sydney,  while  the  man  you 
are  looking  for  is  called " 

"Charles  Sidney  Faulkner." 

Rachel  started  slightly,  and  exclaimed: 

"Indeed!  Then  I  suppose  it  is  the  same.  But  this 
man  calls  his  wife  Molly,  her  name  being,  I  presume, 
Mary ;  while  your  stepdaughter  is  named— 

"Melinda  Mary.  Her  father  always  called  her  Me- 
linda." 

"And  her  husband  calls  her  Molly.  These  differences 
in  the  names  were  not,  however,  the  only  circumstances 
that  made  me  doubt  the  identity  of  this  family  with  the 
family  you  seek." 

"What  other  circumstances  are  there,  Rachel?  And 
how,  my  dear  girl,  did  you  come  to  know  so  much  about 
these  new  lodgers?"  inquired  the  lady,  with  much  in 
terest. 

"I  was  called  in  there  last  night  to  see  a  sick  child. 
I  spent  nearly  the  whole  night  with  the  mother,  who 
happened  to  like  me " 

"Happened  to  like  you,  Rachel,  dear!  I  think  that 
is  what  everybody  does.  But  go  on,  my  dear." 

"She  was  very  confiding.  And  she  told  me  all  her 
troubles — all  that  I  have  told  you,  and  more  besides." 

"What  else  besides,  dear?  Tell  me,  for  I  wish  to 
know  everything  in  relation  to  this  unfortunate  girl." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Melliss,  she  has  a  very  wrong  idea  of 
you.  She  could  never  have  seen  you,  or  heard  the 
truth  about  you." 

"I  have  never  in  my  life  met  my  stepdaughter,  I  re- 


THE  LOST  HEIR  257 

gret  very  much  to  say,"  replied  the  young  stepmother. 
"But  what  is  her  idea  of  me,  then,  Rachel?" 

"You  will  not  be  displeased,  I  am  quite  sure,  else  I 
never  would  tell  you.  You  will  laugh  when  you  hear 
that  she  is  quite  ignorant  that  her  father  married  a 
beautiful  young  woman  from  motives  of  pure  love 
and  admiration " 

"Tut,  tut,  Rachel,  dear!  Leave  all  that,  and  tell  me 
what  she  does  think,  poor  child!"  said  Mrs.  Melliss, 
blushing  and  smiling. 

"Well,  then,  she  thinks  her  father  married  only  to 
spite  her,  his  disobedient  daughter.  And  that  he  mar 
ried  a  cross  old  maid,  who  had  been  enameled  and 
made  'beautiful  forever'  by  Madam  Rachel,  and  who 
had  taken  advantage  of  his  temporary  anger  with  his 
daughter  to  fascinate,  entrap  and  marry  him." 

"That  sounds  very  much  like  my  story,"  said  Mrs. 
Melliss,  with  a  smile. 

"Ver  much,  indeed !"  laughed  Rachel. 

"And  what  more?" 

"Why,  she  thinks  that  ever  since  her  father's  second 
marriage,  his  second  wife  has  persistently  prevented 
a  reconciliation  between  that  father  and  his  daughter 
by  intercepting  letters,  misrepresenting  facts,  and — 

and In  short,  dear  Mrs.  Melliss,  she  thinks  her 

father's  lovely  young  wife  is  the  traditional  wicked 
stepmother  of  all  the  story  books!"  concluded  Rachel, 
with  a  smile. 

The  banker's  young  wife  did  not  smile ;  she  was  very 
grave. 

"Poor  child!  Poor  child!"  she  murmured.  "Does 
she  really  so  much  misunderstand  me?  I  did  not 
mind — I  was  even  amused  at  her  supposing  me  to  be  a 
painted  and  padded  and  wigged  old  maid,  for  that  was 
really  funny.  But  that  she  should  think  me  a  base  and 
cruel  and  treacherous  stepmother,  who  could  harden 
the  heart  of  her  father  against  his  suffering  child !  Ohy 
that  hurts,  Rachel!  that  hurts!"  said  the  young  wifer 
as  tears  filled  her  lovely  eyes. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  told  you,"  murmured  Rachel,, 
remorsefully. 


258  THE  LOST  HEIK 

"You  ought,  dear,"  sighed  the  lady. 

"Yet,  Mrs.  Melliss,  your  stepdaughter  cannot  now  be 
long  in  ignorance  of  your  real  character,  and  your  true 
feeling  toward  her,"  said  Rachel,  soothingly. 

"Yes,  but  she  must,  dear.  I  told  you  that  Captain 
Faulkner  must  never  know  where  the  help  comes  from, 
that  I  shall  send  to  his  family.  He  is  a  gentleman,  or 
should  be  one ;  and  his  feelings  must  be  respected.  Be 
sides,  dear  Rachel,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  it  is  better 
that  Mrs.  Faulkner  should  blame  me  than  blame  her 
father  for  this  long  estrangement,"  added  the  young 
stepmother,  with  a  patient  smile. 

"And  you  will  rest  under  this  false  accusation?" 

"It  is  better  that  I  should.  Some  day,  when  I  shall 
have  brought  about  this  long-desired  reconciliation,  she 
will  know  the  truth.  And  now,  Rachel,  dear,  tell  me 
all  about  them — everything  that  comes  into  your  head. 
First,  is  she  in  good  health?" 

"No,  she  is  just  now  delicate.  She  expects  to  be  con 
fined  soon." 

"How  many  children  did  you  say?" 

"There  are  five;  the  eldest,  a  lovely  little  golden- 
haired  fairy,  is  just  five  years  old ;  the  second,  a  black- 
haired  boy  named  Charley,  but  called  Chee,  is  four ;  the 
third  and  fourth,  Ada  and  Lily,  are  two  fair-haired 
girls,  aged  respectively  three  and  two  years;  and  the 
fifth  is  another  black-haired  boy,  aged  one  year.  It  has 
been  noticed  as  a  curious  fact,  that  the  girls  are  like 
their  fair-haired  father,  and  the  boys  like  their  dark- 
haired  mother.  But  you  might  have  seen  them  as  you 
came  in.  All,  except  the  youngest,  were  playing  in  the 
passage." 

"Oh!  I  did  see  some  children  there.  And  I  noticed 
that  they  were  so  thinly  clad!  Oh,  poor  little  things! 
And  so  these  were — my  grandchildren!"  said  Mrs. 
Melliss. 

"Your  grandchildren,"  echoed  Rachel  Wood,  with  a 
smile. 

"Well,  my  step-grandchildren,  then.  It  is  just  the 
same,"  said  the  lovely  young  wife,  gravely. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  259 

"Not  quite  just  the  same,"  thought  Rachel  Wood,  as 
she  looked  at  the  beautiful,  grave  young  face  before 
her.  But  Mrs.  Melliss  was  speaking. 

"Rachel,  we  must  now  consult  how  to  relieve  their 
most  pressing  wants.  Of  course,  it  would  be  very  easy 
to  do  it,  if  one  could  just  go  and  put  a  sum  of  money 
in  her  hands;  but  we  cannot  do  that.  Of  if  one  could 
send  it  by  mail,  and  be  sure  that  it  would  not  fall  into 
the  hands  of  her  spendthrift  husband,"  said  the  lady, 
reflectively. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Melliss,  you  might  inclose  a  sum  in  a 
blank  envelope,  and  give  it  to  me  to  deliver  into  her 
own  hands.  I  would  take  care  to  deliver  it  safely.  You 
could  trust  me?"  inquired  Rachel. 

"Trust  you?  Why,  certainly!  But  you  would  be 
cross-questioned,  Rachel." 

"I  could  baffle  a  cross-questioner,  without  prevarica 
ting,  either,"  said  Rachel. 

"Then  I  will  do  as  you  suggest.  Will  you  let  me  have 
an  envelope?"  inquired  Mrs.  Melliss. 

Rachel  arose  to  look  for  one.  And  this  talk  of  an 
envelope  reminded  her  of  the  letter  she  had  advised  the 
daughter  to  write  to  her  father,  and  had  offered  herself 
to  carry.  As  she  returned  to  Mrs.  Melliss  with  the  re 
quisite  envelope  in  her  hand,  she  told  that  lady  of  the 
circumstance,  and  inquired  whether  now  it  would  be 
advisable  to  carry  out  the  intention. 

"Most  certainly.  Let  Mrs.  Faulkner  write  the  letter, 
Rachel.  And  do  you  take  charge  of  it  and  bring  it  to 
Mr.  Melliss,  and  with  your  own  hand  put  it  into  his, 
and  then  see  what  comes  of  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Melliss, 
as  she  filled  the  envelope  with  banknotes  and  sealed  it 
up,  and  put  it  into  the  hands  of  Rachel,  adding : 

"And  now,  my  dear  girl,  as  I  want  to  have  the  pleas 
ure  of  selecting  outfits  for  those  children,  I  must  beg 
you  to  try,  in  some  delicate  way,  to  get  their  measures 
for  dresses,  shoes,  hats,  and  whatever  else  they  may 
require.  Can  you,  will  you  be  able  to  do  this  without 
exciting  their  suspicion?" 

"Oh,  yes,  they  are  such  mere  babies,"  answered  Ra 
chel,  with  a  smile. 


200  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"And  use  your  ingenuity  in  getting  this  into  the 
hands  of  my  stepdaughter  without  exciting  her  sus 
picions,"  added  Mrs.  Melliss,  as  she  placed  the  envelope 
in  Rachel's  charge. 

"Be  sure  that  I  will  do  so,  dear  Mrs.  Melliss,"  an 
swered  the  seamstress. 

"And  now,"  said  the  lady,  rising  with  a  smile,  "as  the 
rain  seems  to  be  over,  I  will  try  to  get  back  to  Charles 
street.  To-morrow  I  will  send  Mary  Kernpton  to  in 
quire.  We  can  trust  her,  you  know." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed." 

"And  the  next  day  I  will  come  again  in  person.  For 
I  must  tell  you,  Rachel,  that  I  have  not  put  much  in 
that  envelope — only  what  I  happened  to  have  in  my 
purse,  and  scarcely  enough  to  supply  their  immediate 
wants.  So  I  must  come  again  soon — say  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  And  now,  good-by,  my  dear,"  said  the  lady. 

And  she  wrapped  her  waterproof  cloak  around  her 
dress,  and  drew  its  hood  up  over  her  bonnet,  and  passed 
out  of  the  room. 

In  the  passage  she  saw  the  children  still  playing.  She 
had  been  interested  in  them,  even  when  she  first  saw 
them.  How  much  more  was  she  attracted  to  them,  now 
that  she  knew  who  they  were ! 

She  went  up  to  the  group  and  laid  her  hand  on  the 
golden  head  of  the  oldest. 

The  little  creatures  all  with  one  accord  shrank  away 
from  the  cloaked  and  hooded  form,  until  they  saw  the 
bright  and  lovely  face  smiling  under  the  hood,  and  then 
they  clustered  around  her.  She  patted  their  little 
heads  and  felt  in  her  pocket  to  find  if  she  had  any 
change  left.  She  drew  forth  a  few  of  the  smallest  silver 
coins,  threepenny  and  fourpenny  pieces,  and  distributed 
them  to  the  children,  telling  them  to  buy  buns  with  the 
money. 

"Who  diwed  it  to  us?"  inquired  little  two-year-old 
Lily. 

"What  did  you  say,  darling?" 

"Se  ast  you  who  diwed  us  dis  putty  money,"  ex 
plained  little  three-year-old  Ada. 

"Why,  I  did,  my'little  loves!" 


THE  LOST  HEIR  261 

"But  who  is  oo?"  persisted  little  Lily. 

"Dirls,  don't  ast  twestions,"  rebuked  four-year-old 
Charley. 

"We  only  wanted  to  know  your  name,"  explained 
golden-haired  Mary,  the  oldest  child. 

"Ess!    Who  is  oo?"  persisted  little  Lily. 

"Well,  I  am  your  own  Fairy  Grandmother.  That  is 
my  name — Fairy  Grandmother.  Will  you  remember 
it?" 

"Ess,  I  remember.  Fay  Dammer.  Oo  tome  adain, 
Fay  Dammer?"  inquired  Lily,  while  the  other  little 
ones  looked  on. 

"Yes,  darling,  be  sure  I  will  come  again.  Good-by, 
babies." 

"Tiss  Illy  dood-by,  den,"  said  the  child,  putting  up 
its  rosy  lips. 

"Yes,  I'll  kiss  Lily,  and  Lily's  little  sisters  and  broth 
ers  also.  Good-by,  darlings,  all"  said  the  lady,  as  she 
stooped  and  kissed  them  all  in  turn,  and  then  left  them. 

"Ets  do  by  take,"  said  little  Ada,  jumping  up,  with 
her  threepenny  piece  in  her  hand. 

"Ess,  ess,"  said  Lily. 

But  grave  little  Mary  said: 

"No,  no ;  listen  to  me.  Poor  mamma  hadn't  any  tea 
for  breakfast,  and  her  head  ached,  and  she  wanted  some 
tea.  And  papa  told  her  why  didn't  she  buy  some.  And 
mamma  said  she  hadn't  got  no  money,  and  the  man  at 
the  shop  wouldn't  trust  her  no  longer.  Now  I  tell  you 
what  let  us  do.  Let's  all  give  our  money  to  poor  mam 
ma  to  buy  tea  with." 

"Ess,  ess,  ets  div  all  our  money  to  poor  mamma  to 
buy  tea  wiz,"  chimned  in  all  the  generous  little  hearts 
with  one  accord,  and  they  eagerly  arose  and  ran  to  the 
door  of  their  parents'  room. 

Their  innocent  clamor  brought  out  the  mother,  look 
ing  very  much  worried. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  children,  make  less  noise!  Maryr 
a  great  girl  of  five  years  old  like  you  might  keep  your 
little  sisters  quiet,  one  would  think!  Your  poor,  dear 
papa ; 

"But  we's  dot  so  heap  of  money  to  div  you  to  buy  tea 


262  THE  LOST  HEIR 

wiz,"  said  little  Lily  eagerly,  while  the  others  chined 
in,  and  all  with  one  accord  forced  their  small  coins  on 
their  mother  with  such  haste  that  the  silver  pieces  scat 
tered  down  upon  the  floor. 

"Where  did  you  get  all  this  money,  you  little 
beggars  ?" 

"A  lady  divved  it  to  us,"  said  Lily. 
"Oh,  a  booful  lady !"  added  Ada. 
"Such  a  lovely,  lovely,  lovely  lady,  mamma,  dear!"  ex 
plained  Mary. 

"What  lady?  What  are  you  all  talking  about?  You 
confuse  me  so  you  make  my  head  ache  worse  than  it  did 
before!  What  was  her  name?"  inquired  the  mother,  as 
she  stooped  and  helped  her  little  daughter  Mary  to 
gather  up  the  smal  coins. 

"Fay  Dammer,"  quickly  responded  Lily. 
"Who?" 

"Fay  Dammer,  Fay  Dammer!  Tan't  oo  hear?  Fay 
Dammer,"  repeated  little  Lily. 

"What  in  the  world  does  the  child  mean,  Mary? 
Can't  you  speak?"  inquired  the  nervous  and  irritable 
mother. 

"She  means  fairy  grandmother,  mamma  dear.  It  was 
a  lady  in  a  dark  cloak  and  a  hood  drawn  over  her  head, 
and  she  come  out  of  Miss  Wood's  room.  And  she  patted 
our  heads  and  gave  us  money.  And  when  Lily  asked 
her  who  she  was,  she  laughed  and  said  she  was  our 
fairy  grandmother." 

"Fairy  godmother,  I  suppose  you  mean?"  said  their 
mamma. 

"No,  grandmother,  mamma,  not  godmother,"  an 
swered  Mary. 

"Ess,  Dammer !  Fay  Dammer,"  added  Lily,  emphati 
cally. 

"I  suppose  some  well-to-do  customer  of  Mrs.  Wood's 
who  loves  children,  and  gave  you  this  to  buy  cake." 
"Yes,  mamma,  dear,"  said  Mary. 
The  poor  mother  counted  the  money.    There  were  but 
eighteen  pence   in    all.      It  was  not  much,  but  quite 
enough  to  buy  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  good  tea. 
The  poor  woman  looked  at  the  silver,  and  then  at  the 


THE  LOST  HEIR  263 

little,  upturned,  eager  faces.  She  hated  to  take  the 
money  from  her  children,  but  she  longed  for  a  cup  of 
tea,  as  only  a  woman  with  a  nervous  headache  could. 
And  those  little  faces,  too,  were  all  so  full  of  delight  at 
the  idea  of  their  having  something  that  they  could  give 
their  mother. 

"Well,  my  poor  little  loves,  I  will  borrow  some  of 
your  little  money,  but  not  all  of  it.  Here,  Mary,  come 
get  a  little  basket  and  a  little  tin  cup,  and  go  to  the 
corner  of  the  lane,  to  Mrs.  Quigley's,  and  buy  me  an 
ounce  of  good  tea,  and  an  ounce  of  white  sugar,  and  a 
pennyworth  of  milk — that  will  be  one  and  two  pence 
in  all ;  and  then  you'll  have  a  penny  apiece  to  spend," 
said  the  young  mother,  as  she  retreated  into  the  cham 
ber  and  came  out  again  with  a  small  basket  and  a  can, 
which  she  gave  to  her  eldest  little  daughter,  together 
with  the  money.  She  then  repeated  her  directions  to 
the  child.  And  the  "grave  fairy,"  though  but  five  years 
old,  was  quite  capable  of  understanding,  remembering 
and  executing  them. 

"May  we  do  wii  Mary  to  'pend  our  pennies,  mamma, 
dear?"  inquired  tiny  Lily. 

"Yes,  darling,  you  may  all  go.  Take  care  of  the  chil 
dren,  Mary,  dear,"  said  the  mother. 

And  the  little  matron  of  five  promised  to  do  so,  and 
went  on  her  errand,  followed  by  the  troop. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE   GAMBLER'S   HOME. 

Mrs.  Faulkner  had  scarcely  closed  the  door  behind 
her  children,  when  she  was  slightly  startled  by  a  soft 
rap. 

She  went  and  opened  the  door  again. 

Rachel  Wood,  who  had  just  succeeded  in  putting  her 
baby  to  sleep  and  getting  it  out  of  her  arms,  stood 
there. 

"Oh!  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  ask  you  to  come  in;  but 


264  THE  LOST  HEIE 

my  husband  is  quite  ill  in  bed  just  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Faulkner,  apologetically,  holding  the  door  but  half 
open. 

Yet  while  she  held  it  so,  her  visitor  quite  unwillingly 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  gambler's  home  by  daylight. 
How  squalid  it  really  looked!  How  much  worse  by 
sunlight  than  by  tallow  candle  light!  And  oh!  how 
much  cleaner,  decenter  and  more  comfortable  the  poor 
ballet  girls  had  made  their  old  grandparents  in  this 
same  room,  than  this  gentleman  now  occupying  it  made 
his  wife  and  little  children! 

All  this  passed  rapidly  through  the  mind  of  Eachel 
Wood,  while  Mrs.  Faulkner  stood  there  apologizing  for 
not  inviting  her  in. 

"Say  no  more,  dear  lady.  I  came  to  ask  you  to  step 
into  my  room  for  a  few  minutes.  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you  which  indeed  I  would  not  like  to  say  here,  or 
in  the  presence  of  any  other  person." 

"Oh,  it  is  'about  the  letter  that  I  am  to  write  to  my 
father,  and  that  you  are  to  carry." 

"About  that  and  other  matters.  Will  you  come 
now?" 

"N-no — not  exactly  come  just  now.  I  should  not  like 
to  leave  the  captain  quite  alone.  But  as  soon  as  my 
little  woman  Mary  returns  to  sit  with  her  father,  I  will 
come.  Will  that  do?" 

"Thanks,  yes,  that  will  do.  I  shall  wait  for  you," 
answered  Rachel  Wood,  and,  with  a  nod,  she  returned 
to  her  own  room. 

Mrs.  Faulkner  meanwhile  filled  her  kettle  and  set  it 
over  the  fire.  Notwithstanding  all  that  she  had  said  to 
Eachel,  she  was  resolved  to  have  that  cup  of  tea  before 
she  would  stir  from  the  room. 

At  last  her  grave  little  matron  returned,  followed  by 
all  the  little  children  of  her  charge,  each  child  being 
made  happy  in  the  possession  of  a  Bath  bun. 

"Here  are  all  the  things,  mamma,  dear,  just  as  you 
told  me  to  buy  them ;  look  and  see,"  said  the  little  five- 
year-old  woman,  as  she  sat  the  basket  and  the  can  be 
fore  her  mother. 

"Yes,  darling,  everything  is  just  right,  and  you  are  a 


THE  LOST  HEIR  2G5 

dear  little  girl  and  your  mother's  right  hand,"  said  Mrs. 
Faulkner,  affectionately  caressing  her  little  daughter. 

Little  Mary  was  destined  to  distinguish  herself  as  an 
artist  in  after  days,  and  to  receive  much  praise  from 
competent  critics ;  but  no  praise  ever  sounded  so  sweet 
in  her  ears  as  this,  uttered  by  her  poor  mother. 

Mrs.  Faulkner  made  her  cup  of  tea  and  enjoyed  it, 
felt  herself  relieved  of  her  nervous  headache,  and  then 
left  her  stupefied  husband  and  her  infant  children  in 
the  charge  of  her  little  woman,  and  went  to  see  what 
Rachel  Wood  wanted  with  her. 

She  found  the  poor  seamstress  sitting  by  her  small 
fire,  and,  as  usual,  engaged  in  needlework. 

Rachel  rose  at  once  and  offered  the  visitor  a  seat. 
And  when  the  latter  had  taken  it,  the  former  said: 

"It  was  not  only  about  the  letter  to  your  father  that  I 
wished  to  speak  with  you  alone,  madam,  but  about 
something  else — a  delicate  mission  that  is  intrusted  to 
me." 

"A  delicate  mission?"  echoed  the  gambler's  wife. 

"Yes,  madam,  and  intrusted  to  me  by  one  of  your 
best  and  truest  friends." 

"By  one  of  my  best  and  truest  friends?"  again 
echoed  the  poor  lady,  who  seemed  unable  to  do  much 
more  than  echo  the  words  of  the  seamstress. 

"Yes,  said  Rachel. 

UI  did  not  know  that  I  had  a  friend  left  in  the 
world,"  replied  the  lady,  with  a  bitter  sigh. 

"You  have  many,  let  us  hope.  And  did  not  you 
yourself  tell  me  of  good  friends  who  ministered  to 
you  in  times  gone  by,  and  whom  you  thought  would 
still  serve  you,  had  you  not  withdrawn  yourself  from 
their  knowledge?" 

"Oh,  yes!  But  they  did  their  good  work  anony 
mously.  I  do  not  even  suspect  who  they  are.  I  have 
no  means  of  communicating  with  them,  nor  they  with 
me,"  said  the  poor  lady,  sadly. 

"Yet  they  have  not  lost  sight  of  you,  perhaps ;  for  I 
have  this  morning  received  a  visit  from  a  lady  who 
thinks  that  you  have  claims  upon  her,  and  who  has  left 
this  packet  with  me  to  be  placed  in  your  hands.  It  is  a 


266  THE  LOST  HEIR 

debt  that  she  thinks  she  owes  you ;  so  pray  do  not  feel 
any  embarrassment  or  reluctance  in  receiving  it,"  said 
Rachel,  as  she  placed  the  envelope  containing  the  bank 
notes  in  the  hand  of  her  visitor. 

Mrs.  Faulkner  opened  the  envelope  and  examined  its 
contents. 

"This  is  an  alms !"  she  exclaimed,  as  a  flush  of  shame 
suffused  her  face  and  neck. 

"No,  believe  me,  dear  lady,  it  is  not.  So  much  I  may 
at  least  tell  you.  It  is  left  for  your  by  one  who  feels 
that  she  owes  you  much  more  even  than  that  sum,"  said 
Rachel,  earnestly. 

"Who  is  it?"  inquired  the  poor  lady. 

"I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you.  Some  day  you  will 
know,  but  not  yet. 

"I  hate  mystery!   And  I  utterly  abhor — alms!" 

"Here  is  mystery  I  grant  you.  But  some  time  it  will 
be  cleared  up.  But  here  are  not  alms.  This  is  your 
right,  madam.  You  may  receive  it  without  the  slightest 
danger  to  your  self-respect." 

"If  I  thought  so " 

"I  assure  you  it  is  so !  The  money  is  your  right,  I  tell 
you,  madam." 

"My  right!  Oh,  then  it  must  come  from  my  father!" 
exclaimed  the  poor  lady,  darting  a  penetrating  glance 
at  the  face  of  the  seamtress. 

Rachel  dropped  her  eyes  and  continued  silent.  In 
one  sense  the  money  certainly  did  come  from  her 
father,  since  it  was  sent  by  her  stepmother  from  the 
private  income  settled  upon  the  latter  by  her  generous 
husband. 

"You  do  not  answer.  Say,  did  it  not  come  from  my 
father?"  persistly  inquired  Mr.  Melliss'  daughter. 

"I  pray  you,  madam,  not  to  press  me  with  questions 
that  my  honor  forbids  me  to  answer,"  said  Rachel. 

"Oh,  well.  That  is  quite  enough.  Now  I  know  that 
this  money  does  come  from  my  dear  father.  May 
Heaven  bless  him !"  fervently  exclaimed  the  lady. 

"I  must  entreat  you,  dear  lady,  to  draw  no  inferences 
from  my  silence,"  earnestly  replied  Rachel. 

"Oh,  be  tranquil,  you  good  soul!    You  have  done 


THE  LOST  HEIR  267 

your  best  to  perform  your  mission  and  to  keep  your 
secret.  You  can  do  more.  If  I  have  seen  through  the 
little  mystery,  it  is  no  fault  of  yours,"  said  Mrs.  Faulk 
ner,  with  a  gay  laugh. 

"I  beseech  you,  madam,  that  you  will  not  form  hasty 
conclusions.  My  pledged  word  forbids  me  to  explain, 
but " 

"Oh,  you  dear  creature,  you  needn't  explain !  I  know 
all  about  it.  I  know  now  that  my  poor,  dear,  darling 
old  daddy  has  been  my  secret  benefactor  all  along.  I 
mean,  that  I  know  it  was  he  who  sent  me  fifty  pounds 
in  money  and  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  more  in  baby 
linens  and  invalid's  outfit,  when  I  was  confined  with 
my  first  child  at  Brighton.  I  know  it  all  now ;  What 
a  fool  I  must  have  been  not  to  have  known  it  before! 
Who  in  all  the  world  but  my  own  father,  would  have 
cared  enough  for  me  to  have  done  all  that?" 

Kachel  sighed.  She  longed  to  justify  the  banker's 
lovely  young  wife,  and  to  say,  "Who?  who?  who  but 
your  angel  stepmother?"  And  then  to  tell  her  the 
whole  story  of  Angela's  goodness.  But  she  was  bound 
by  her  promise  to  Mrs.  Melliss  not  to  reveal  that  lady 
as  the  benefactress  of  her  husband's  discarded  daugh 
ter. 

"My  dear  father!"  continued  the  poor  lady.  "Ah!  I 
see  how  it  is !  He  would  have  forgiven  us  and  brought 
us  home  to  himself  long  ago  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
adverse  influence  of  that  base,  cruel,  treacherous  wo 
man  whom  he  has  made  his  wife!  He  has  fallen  com 
pletely  into  her  power.  He  can  do  nothing  openly  for 
•his  poor  daughter  and  her  suffering  children.  Ah !  how 
he  must  repent  his  marriage!  Oh,  I  wonder  if  it  is 
wicked  to  wish  that  woman  would  die?" 

It  was  on  Rachel's  tongue  to  say:  "You  do  a  sweet 
and  lovely  lady  bitter  injustice."  But  again  her  prom 
ise  sealed  her  lips.  It  was  very  hard  to  sit  still  and 
hear  all  this.  But  she  had  one  consolation — in  looking 
forward  to  that  surely  coming  day  when  Melinda 
Faulkner  would  know  her  best  friend  and  be  filled  with 
repentance  for  all  this. 

"And  to  think  my  dear  father  has  been  my  secret 


268  THE  LOST  HEIR 

benefactor  all  this  while!  Well,  I  can  take  this  money, 
since  it  comes  from  him.  And  now  about  the  letter, 
Rachel.  Under  these  changed  circumstances,  had  I 
better  write  it?" 

"Certainly." 

"Well,  I  will  do  so.  And  had  I  not  better  thank  him 
for  this  assistance?" 

"Decidedly  not!"  said  Rachel,  in  some  alarm,  "for 
you  have  no  evidence  that  it  does  come  from  him." 

"Oh,  but  I  am  morally  certain  that  it  does.  And  I 
think  perhaps  I  shall  allude  to  it  in  my  letter  in  a  deli 
cate  and  distant  way,  so  as  to  let  him  see  that  I  am 
very  grateful." 

"I  think  you  had  better  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  And 
now  I  must  tell  you,  madam,  that  the  donation  did  not 
come  directly  from  your  father." 

"Did  not  come  directly?  Oh!  how  you  try  to  guard 
the  secret!  Of  course  it  did  not  come  directly.  It  came 
through  you.  And  perhaps  through  others  also.  But 
you  cannot  deny  that  this  came  originally  from  my 
father!"  said  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of  confidence  and 
triumph. 

No,  Rachel  could  not  deny  that;  for,  of  course,  all 
Mrs.  Melliss'  income  came  from  her  husband.  And 
neither  could  Rachel  explain  this,  for  her  promise  tied 
her  tongue. 

"It  is  ten  pounds !  It  is  more  money  than  I  have  had 
for  the  last  five  years.  But  oh !  so  many  things  to  get 
out  of  it!  I  must  have  tea  and  sugar  and  coffee.  I 
must  have  meat  and  potatoes,  and  coals  and  kindling 
wood.  All  that  immediately!  Then  I  must  buy  bed 
linen,  blankets,  quilts  and  underclothing,"  murmured 
the  poor  lady  to  herself,  counting  over  her  money  and 
her  wants,  half  in  childish  delight,  half  in  womanish 
anxiety ;  for,  after  all,  the  money  might  not  hold  out. 

"Rachel,"  she  said,  suddenly  rising,  "I  have  a  favor 
to  ask  of  you.  I  am  always  asking  favors  of  people, 
especially  if  they  are  so  imprudent  as  to  grant  me  the 
first  one.  I  am  a  regular  sponge  upon  people,  Rachel 
— for  their  services,  I  mean." 

"I  am  sure  you  are  nothing  of  the  sort.    And  I  shall 


THE  LOST  HEIR  269 

be  very  happy  to  serve  you  in  any  way/'  answered  the 
seamtress. 

''Thanks,  my  dear  woman.    I  knew  you  would." 

"Is  it  about  your  father's  letter?"  inquired  the  seam- 
tress. 

"Oh,  no,  not  that.  I  cannot  write  that  to-day.  I  must 
go  out  now  and  make  my  purchases ;  for  we  want  every 
thing,  Rachel,  everything,  everything — from  loaves  of 
bread  to  clean  sheets." 

Rachel  could  well  believe  it,  from  the  daylight 
glimpse  she  had  got  into  the  gambler's  home.  But  she 
said: 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  assist  you  in  making  these  pur 
chases  to-day?  I  am  quite  ready  to  do  so." 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear  woman,  no.  I  shall  go  out  and  take 
a  cab,  for  I  cannot  walk  far  in  my  state  of  health.  And 
I  shall  bring  all  my  purchases  home  with  me.  No ;  what 
I  want  you  to  do  for  me,  is  to  give  an  eye  to  my  little 
ones  out  in  the  passage.  My  little  woman  Mary  will 
have  to  stay  in  the  room  and  watch  her  father,  but 
the  others  will  have  to  stay  out  there  in  the  passage 
by  themselves;  and  if  you  could  only  give  an  eye  to 
them " 

"Oh,  I  will  have  them  in  the  room  here,"  said  the 
seamstress.  "It  must  be  cold  for  the  poor  little  ones 
out  there."  j 

"Oh,  thank  you!  Yes,  indeed,  I  know  it  is  cold  for 
the  poor  darlings.  But  ah!  I  cannot  help  it.  If  they 
are  allowed  to  stay  in  our  room  where  there  is  a  fire, 
their  noise  disturbs  their  poor,  dear  father,  so  I  have 
to  send  them  out  there." 

Indignation  swelled  the  honest  heart  of  the  seam 
stress.  Here  was  this  infatuated  woman,  not  only  de 
voting  herself  to  her  dissipated  husband,  but  even 
risking  her  children's  lives  by  leaving  them  out  in  the 
cold  passage,  lest  their  innocent  prattle  should  disturb 
his  drunken  sleep.  But  Rachel  said  nothing. 

And  yet  this  poor,  mistaken  young  mother  loved  her 
children,  too.  And  now,  with  the  tears  springing  to  her 
eyes,  she  told  Rachel  about  the  money  that  the  strange 


270  THE  LOST  HEIR 

lady  had  given  them,  and  how  they  came  to  her  with  it 
and  gave  it  all  to  her  to  buy  tea  with. 

"They  are  sweet  and  lovely  children.  They  should 
not  be  exposed  or  neglected  on  their  father's  account,'7 
Rachel  ventured  to  say. 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  their  mother,  ignoring  the  latter 
part  of  Rachel's  speech.  "They  are  sweet  and  lovely 
children.  They  are  all  affectionate  and  generous.  And 
they  take  all  their  sweetness  and  generosity  of  dispo 
sition  from  their  dear  father.  Poor  Charley!  he  is  so 
fond  of  us  all.  He  is  perfectly  devoted  to  us.  He 
would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  us." 

"Except  to  restrain  his  own  evil  appetities,  that  are 
destroying  himself  and  you,"  thought  Rachel,  but  she 
said  nothing. 

And  now  Mrs.  Faulkner  was  going.  And  Rachel  ac 
companied  her  to  the  door,  and  called  the  three  little 
children  who  were  out  in  the  passage  to  come  into  her 
room. 

The  other  two — the  eldest  and  the  youngest — were  in 
their  parents'  room. 

Rachel  took  a  little  bench  and  put  it  before  the  fire, 
and  told  the  children  to  sit  there  and  warm  them 
selves.  Their  little  hands  were  blue  with  cold,  and  they 
were  shivering  in  their  thin  and  insufficient  clothing. 

"Fere  is  Fay  Dainmer?"  inquired  little  two-year-old 
Lily,  the  brightest  of  the  group. 

"Where  is  who,  darling?"  asked  Rachel. 

"Se  means  Fayee  Gammer,"  explained  little  Ada. 

But  Rachel  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  they  can't  talk  plain.  It  is  Fairy  Ganmother," 
expounded  Master  Charley,  in  the  confident  wisdom 
of  four  years. 

"Oh !  Fairy  Grandmother.  You  must  mean  the  lady 
who  gave  you  the  silver  bits?"  smiled  Rachel. 

"Ess !"  said  little  Lily.    "Fay  Dammer." 

Rachel  explained  that  she  had  gone  home,  but  would 
some  day  return. 

And  then,  in  a  playful  sort  of  a  way,  she  told  them 
that  she  wanted  to  see  how  big  they  were.  And  so, 
one  after  the  other,  she  measured  the  children  for  their 


THE  LOST  HEIK  271 

clothes  and  shoes,  and  made  memoranda  of  the  meas 
urement  to  send  to  Mrs.  Melliss. 

After  two  hours'  absence,  Mrs.  Faulkner  returned, 
radiant  with  delight  at  her  purchases.  They  were  in 
the  cab  before  the  house;  and  it  took  her  and  the  cab 
man  three  or  four  journeys  up  and  down  stairs  before 
they  were  all  safely  stowed  away  in  her  bare  sitting- 
room.  Then  she  paid  the  cabman  and  sent  him  away, 
and  finally  she  came  into  Rachel's  room  and  sat  down, 
panting  with  fatigue  and  smiling  with  delight. 

"I  have  bought  all  the  real  necessaries  that  we  re 
quire,  and  I  have  spent  eight  pounds.  Ah,  dear  me!  I 
could  have  spent  the  other  two  also,  but  I  saved  them 
for  poor,  dear  Charley.  I  know  he  hasn't  a  penny. 
Those  dreadful  men  he  supped  with  last  night  cleared 
him  out.  And  it  is  so  mortifying  to  a  man  not  to  have 
any  money  in  his  pocket,"  she  said,  confidentially. 

"Especially  when  he  wants  it  to  drink  up,  or  to 
gamble  it  away,"  thought  Kachel,  indignantly,  but  still 
she  said  nothing. 

Mrs.  Faulkner  then  thanked  the  seamstress  for  her 
care  of  the  children,  and  would  have  taken  them  away, 
but  Rachel  said : 

"Leave  them  with  me,  if  you  please,  until  you  can 
take  them  into  your  own  room.  The  passage  is  too 
cold  and  damp  for  children." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  dear ;  but  I  have  coals  and  kindlings 
now,  and  I  am  going  to  have  a  fire  in  my  sitting-room 
for  the  children.  And  I  would  like  you  also  to  come  in 
and  see  my  purchases,"  said  the  young  mother. 

"Thank  you.  I  will  keep  the  children  until  the  fire  is 
made  for  them,  and  then  I  will  take  them  in  and  look  at 
your  purchases,"  replied  Rachel. 

Her  visitor  went  away.  Half  an  hour  later  Rachel 
kept  her  promise,  and  took  the  children  into  the  sitting- 
room,  which  adjoined  the  Faulkners'  bedroom,  and  had 
once  been  the  apartment  of  the  stage  carpenter's  fam- 

iiy. 

Here  Rachel  found  a  good  fire,  and  also  the  other  two 
children. 

She  examined  and  admired  the  purchases,  and  said, 


272  THE  LOST  HEIR 

what  she  really  thought,  that  the  money  laid  out  in 
them  had  been  very  judiciously  expended. 

Then  she  requested,  as  a  favor,  that  Mrs.  Faulkner 
would  send  her  eldest  and  youngest  child  to  see  her  in 
the  course  of  that  afternoon,  as  she  wished  to  get  ac 
quainted  with  them  also. 

And  their  mother  gave  her  promise  that  they  should 
be  sent. 

So,  a  little  later  in  the  afternoon,  the  grave  little 
matron  Mary  entered  Rachel's  room,  bending  under  the 
burden  of  the  twelve  months  old  baby  Freddy,  whom 
she  brought  in  her  arms. 

Rachel  relieved  the  little  woman  of  her  charge,  and 
gave  her  a  seat.  And  then  she  played  with  the  baby 
and  chatted  with  the  little  girl,  until  she  had  con 
trived  to  measure  them  for  shoes  and  clothes.  Then 
she  let  them  go.  And  she  added  the  new  measures  to 
the  memoranda  she  had  prepared  to  send  Mrs.  Melliss. 

She  saw  no  more  of  the  Faulkner  family  that  day. 
But  at  night  she  heard  Captain  Faulkner  noiselessly 
get  up  and  dress  himself  and  go  out. 

And  she  felt  sure  that  the  irreclaimable  gamester 
had  gone  off  to  gamble  away  the  money  his  fond  and 
foolish  wife  had  given  him. 

If  the  man  returned  home  at  all  that  night,  Rachel 
never  knew  it. 

The  next  morning  Mary  Kempton  came,  according 
to  Mrs.  Melliss'  promise. 

Rachel  gave  her  the  memoranda  of  the  children's 
measures  in  a  sealed  envelope.  She  also  wrote  a  short 
note  to  Mrs.  Melliss,  telling  that  lady  how  she  had  exe 
cuted  her  commissions. 

After  Mary  Kempton  went  away,  Rachel  put  her 
child  to  sleep,  dressed  herself  in  her  outdoor  garments, 
and  went  to  carry  some  work  home. 

As  she  passed  on  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  she  heard 
the  Faulkner  children  at  play  in  the  sitting-room.  She 
felt  glad  that  they  had  a  fire,  as  she  went  down  the 
stairs. 

She  took  her  work  home  to  the  outfitter  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard.  And  then  finding  herself  in  the  neighbor- 


THE  LOST  HEIR  273 

hood  of  the  children's  hospital,  where  little  Benny  was 
staying,  she  thought  she  would  call  and  ask  after  him. 

Fortunately  it  was  "visiting  day."  And  when  she  in 
quired  at  the  office,  she  was  directed  to  the  ward  where 
the  child  lay. 

It  was  a  long  room,  with  two  rows  of  windows  on 
each  side,  and  two  rows  of  little  white  beds,  each  bed 
between  two  windows,  and  there  was  a  broad  aisle  up 
the  middle. 

About  half  the  number  of  beds  were  occupied  by 
children.  About  half  a  dozen  nurses  were  in  attend 
ance.  As  yet  there  seemed  to  be  no  visitors. 

Eachel  named  the  little  patient  she  wished  to  see,, 
and  she  was  at  once  shown  the  bed  on  which  little- 
Benny  lay. 

She  went  up  to  look  at  him.  She  saw  him  and  turned 
away  her  head.  She  could  scarcely  restrain  herself 
from  breaking  into  hysterical  tears. 

He  looked  so  like  death,  yet  so  beautiful  in  death. 
His  bed  and  his  clothes  were  as  clean  and  white  as 
new-fallen  snow.  His  wan  face  was  as  white  as  his. 
pillow;  his  blue  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  his  bright 
gold  hair  was  pushed  away  from  his  fair,  broad  brow, 
and  lay  in  little  glittering,  tangled  curls  each  side  his 
face,  upon  the  pillow. 

"That  is  a  beautiful  child.  You  are  a  friend  of  his?"' 
inquired  the  nurse  who  stood  beside  the  bed. 

"Yes,"  said  Rachel,  scarcely  able  to  speak  for  emo 
tion.  "Is  he  very  ill?  Will  he  recover?"  she  inquired.. 

"While  there's  life  there's  hope,"  evasively  answered: 
the  nurse. 

"May  I  speak  to  him?" 

Oh,  yes ;  the  doctor  thinks  it  best  to  rouse  him  some 
times." 

"Benny,  dear  Benny,"  said  Rachel,  bending  over  him.. 

He  opened  his  gentle  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

"Do  you  know  me,  Benny?" 

"Yes,  Rosy,"  he  softly  replied. 

She  could  no  longer  restrain  her  feelings,  but  burst 
into  tears. 

"Don't  cry,  Rosy.    I  know  you  are  hungry.    Pll  try 


274  THE  LOST  HEIR 

to  get  up  and  go  out  and — get  you  something — I " 

And  with  this  the  poor  little  fellow  tried  to  raise 
himself  on  his  elbow  and  put  one  foot  out  of  the  bed; 
but  immediately  fell  back,  exhausted  and  fainting. 

"Nev — nev-never  mind,  Rosy!  Don't  cry!  I'll  just 
rest  myself  a  little  bit — and  then  I'll  go — and  get  you 
something  to  eat !"  he  murmured  at  intervals  and  with 
difficulty,  panting  and  gasping  between  his  words. 

"Oh !  this  is "  Rachel  began,  but  her  sobs  choked 

her  voice.  She  dropped  her  head  upon  the  side  of  the 
bed  and  wept  bitterly. 

"You  will  cry  ? — Don't  cry,  Rosy — There !  I'll  get  up 
and  go  now — Oh !  I  can't — it  is  so  dark " 

"I  had  better  go.  He  takes  me  for  somebody  else, 
and  my  presence  excites  him,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Rachel. 

"Oh,  no,  you  don't  hurt  him.  The  doctor  dreads 

coma  worse  than  anything  else  for  him Oh!  here 

comes  her  grace!"  suddenly  said  the  nurse,  in  a  low 
tone,  as  she  broke  off  from  her  first  discourse. 

Rachel  turned  her  head  and  saw  a  distinguished 
party  of  visitors  entering  the  room. 

"Who  did  you  say  was  coming?"  she  inquired  of  the 
nurse. 

"Her  Grace  the  Duchess  of  Cheviot." 

Benny's  mother! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   LITTLE   OUTCAST. 

Yes,  it  was  she — the  beautiful  young  Duchess  of 
Cheviot,  attended  by  a  brilliant  party. 

What  did  she  in  the  Middlesex  Hospital  for  Chil 
dren? 

Well,  the  duke  and  duchess  were  entertaining  a  for 
eign  prince  at  Cheviot  House.  And  they  were  showing 
his  serene  highness  the  sights  of  London,  especially  its 
"charities." 

And  this  morning  they  had  brought  him  here. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  275 

The  party  consisted  of  the  prince,  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Cheviot,  their  son,  the  young  Earl  of  Well- 
rose,  and  a  gentleman  in  waiting  on  his  serene  high 
ness. 

The  distinguished  party  approached  the  bed  occu 
pied  by  little  Benny,  and  which  was  nearest  to  the 
door  of  entrance. 

Kachel  Wood  had  never  seen  the  young  duchess,  but 
she  would  have  recognized  the  beautiful  patrician  any 
where  by  the  portraits  she  had  seen  of  her  in  the  photo 
graphic  galleries  and  the  print  shops.  Kachel  withdrew 
to  a  short  distance  as  the  party  came  up. 

The  prince,  a  slim  little  old  man,  with  very  red  hair 
and  beard  and  a  wizened  face,  and  dressed  in  plain 
citizen's  suit  of  black,  stuck  his  glass  to  his  eye  and 
bent  over  the  child. 

"A  fair,  pretty  boy!  A  very  interesting  looking 
boy !  What,  then,  is  his  malady,  nurse  ?"  he  inquired,  in 
the  German  language. 

The  good  woman  shook  her  head  in  despair,  and 
courtesied.  She  did  not  understand  a  word  he  said. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  boy,  nurse?"  then  in 
quired  the  duchess. 

"A  low  fever,  your  grace,"  answered  the  woman,  with 
another  courtesy. 

"A  fever !"  muttered  the  prince,  hastily  moving  on. 

"This  is  not  a  contagious  fever,  your  highness.  There 
are  no  cases  of  contagious  fever  in  this  ward.  Is  it  not 
so,  nurse?"  inquired  the  duchess. 

"Certainly,  your  grace;  the  fever  cases,  which  I 
mean  to  say  contagious  cases,  are  all  on  the  other  side 
of  the  building,"  answered  the  nurse,  with  the  inevi 
table  courtesy. 

"It  is  quite  true,  madam.  There  i^  not,  I  assure  you, 
the  slightest  danger  of  infection  from  these  cases," 
added  the  physician  in  charge  of  the  hospital,  who 
was  in  attendance  upon  the  distinguished  visitors,  but 
who  had  been  unavoidably  detained  for  a  moment  at 
the  door,  and  had  now  come  up. 

But  his  serene  highness  was  anything  but  serene  at 


276  THE  LOST  HEIR 

this  moment.  He  moved  on,  followed  by  the  duke  and 
the  gentleman  in  waiting. 

The  young  duchess  and  the  little  earl  lingered  by 
the  bedside  of  the  sick  child. 

The  physician  stood  halting  between  two  opinions — 
whether  to  follow  the  prince,  or  to  wait  for  the  lady. 

"Are  you  not  coming,  Eglantine?"  inquired  the  duke, 
stepping  back  to  her  side. 

"No,  Willie,  dear;  not  just  yet  You  and  the  doctor 
attend  the  prince.  You  will  find  me  and  Alick  here  on 
your  return,"  replied  the  young  duchess. 

"Come,  doctor,"  said  the  duke. 

And  the  physician  no  longer  hesitated  between  two 
opinions,  but  followed  the  duke  to  the  spot  where  the 
prince  and  his  gentleman  were  both  "waiting." 

Meanwhile  the  young  duchess  and  the  little  earl 
stood  by  the  bedside  of  Benny. 

The  sick  boy  lay  with  his  white  face,  hollow  cheeks, 
half-closed  blue  eyes,  broad  forehead  and  damp  golden 
hair,  quite  still. 

"Poor,  poor,  poor  little  pale  face!"  muttered  the 
duchess  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  compassion,  as  her 
tears  fell  fast  upon  his  pillow. 

Why  did  she  gaze  so  fondly  on  him?  Why  did  she 
weep  so  much?  Why,  indeed,  did  she  linger  so  long  at 
his  bedside,  when  there  was  so  much  more  to  see  in  this 
hospital? 

Who  could  tell? 

Certainly  she  could  not.  She  even  wondered  at  her 
self  that  she  should  be  so  overcome  at  the  sight  of  a 
sick  pauper  child  who  was  a  perfect  stranger  to  her. 

For  she  did  not  recognize  him  as  a  child  that  she 
had  ever  seen  before.  And  yet  she  had  seen  him  twice, 
at  long  intervals — once  as  a  babe  in  a  beggar's  arms, 
and  once  as  a  poor  street  boy,  on  Brunswick  terrace,  at 
Brighton.  And  now  she  saw  him  again  as  a  patient  in 
the  Middlesex  Hospital  for  Children. 

She  could  not  recognize  him.  Still  less  could  she 
have  the  faintest  suspicion  that  this  poor  little  patient 
sufferer,  lying  on  a  pauper's  pallet  bed,  was  her  own 
child,  her  first  born,  the  real  Earl  of  Wellrose,  the  real 


THE  LOST  HEIR  277 

heir  to  the  renowned  Douglas,  with  their  ancient 
Dukedom  of  Cheviot,  privileges,  titles,  dignities,  en 
joyed  now  by  his  younger  brother;  while  he,  deprived  of 
all  his  rights,  outcast,  disowned,  neglected,  perverted, 
half  famished  for  want  of  food,  half  frozen  for  want  of 
fuel,  half  poisoned  from  foul  air,  had  found  his  way  to 
the  fever  ward  of  the  pauper  children's  hospital. 

Ah!  if  titles  and  estates,  if  rank  and  respect,  had 
been  all  that  this  child  had  been  deprived  of,  though 
much  in  themselves,  they  would  have  been  little  in 
comparison  with  his  other  losses — of  mother's,  father's, 
sisters',  brothers'  love,  of  moral  and  religious  training, 
of  cleanliness  arid  decency. 

In  some  occult  manner,  something  of  the  truth  of  all 
this  must  have  found  its  way  to  the  unconscious  moth 
er's  spirit,  as  she  gazed  upon  her  unknown  child.  Else 
why  should  she  weep  so  abundantly? 

"She  has  a  very  tender  heart,"  whispered  the  nurse 
apart,  to  Rachel  Wood. 

"Yes,  it  is  evident  that  her  extensive  charities  spring 
from  her  benevolent  heart  alone,  and  not  from  a  vain 
love  of  praise,"  murmured  the  seamstress,  in  a  low 
voice. 

The  young  duchess  dried  her  eyes  and  looked  up,  and 
inquired : 

"Who  is  this  poor  boy,  nurse?" 

"I  don't  know,  please  your  grace,  let  alone  his  being 
sf  Number  Three,"  of  this  hospital.  But  the  clerk  he 
could  tell  your  grace  from  the  books,"  answered  the 
nurse,  as  she  respectfully  approached  the  duchess. 

"Will  he  die?"  softly  inquired  the  weeping  lady. 

The  nurse  glanced  over  her  shoulder  toward  Rachel 
Wood,  who  still  stood  modestly  withdrawn  to  a  short 
distance,  and  then  answered  in  a  very  low  tone : 

"Yes,  your  grace ;  though  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  that 
poor  young  'oman  hear  me  say  so,  she  being  a  friend 
o'  hizzen." 

The  young  duchess  followed  with  her  eye  the  direc 
tion  of  the  nurse's  glance,  and  saw  a  consumptive  look 
ing,  poorly  clothed  young  woman,  whom  she  took  to  be 
the  elder  sister  or  young  aunt  of  the  boy;  but  she  was 


278  THE  LOST  HEIR 

immediately  recalled  from  her  observation  by  the  con 
tinued  voice  of  the  woman : 

"But  the  doctor  says  he  can't  possibly  live  through 
to-night,  your  grace,  or  to-morrow,  at  farthest.  He  will 
die." 

uThank  God!"  fervently,  tearfully  breathed  the 
duchess. 

And  she  put  down  her  veil  to  hide  the  traces  of  her 
tears,  and,  followed  by  her  son,  went  to  meet  and  rejoin 
her  party. 

Rachel  Wood  bent  over  the  child  and  called  him : 

"Benny !  Benny !  Benny !  Wake  up,  dear !" 

But  the  boy  only  rolled  his  head  and  murmured  in 
his  dying  dream. 

"Benny,  do  you  know  me?  Benny,  dear,  it  is  Rachel 
Wood,  your  friend,"  she  said,  slightly  shaking  him. 

But  the  boy  only  sighed,  murmured  about  a  lovely 
lady,  a  ring  and  a  wreath,  and  relapsed  into  stillness. 

"Benny!  Benny,  darling!  Wake  up!  Rouse  yourself! 
Look  at  me!  Speak  to  me!"  exclaimed  Rachel,  taking 
him  bodily  and  lifting  him  up  in  a  sitting  posture. 

The  child  opened  his  eyes  wide,  stared  at  the  speaker, 
murmured  some  coherent  promise  as  to  what  he  would 
do  for  her  when  he  got  to  be  "a  big  man,"  then  drew  a 
deep  breath  and  sank  a  dead  weight  in  her  arms. 

Rachel  looked  up  in  alarm  at  the  nurse. 

"Lay  him  down.  He  is  gone,  poor  dear,"  said  the 
woman  gently. 

"Gone!"  echoed  Rachel  in  a  faint  voice. 

"Yes,  gone.  He  is  dead.  It  came  sooner  than  we  ex 
pected.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  poor  dear ;  for  belike  you 
are  a  near  relation  of  hizzen." 

"Poor,  dear  little  Benny!"  murmured  Rachel,  stoop 
ing  and  pressing  her  lips  to  his  pale  forehead. 

"War  'e  a  hoffing,  ma'am?"  inquired  the  nurse. 

"I  suppose  he  was  an  orphan,"  answered  Rachel,  who 
did  not  wish  to  answer  the  question  by  entering  into 
any  details  of  the  boy's  little  history. 

And  before  the  nurse  could  inquire  further,  the  phy 
sician  returned  from  seeing  his  distinguished  visitors 
out. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  279 

Noticing  that  something  had  happened  on  the  bed 
nearest  the  door,  the  physician  stopped  in  passing,  and 
inquired : 

"What  is  it,  nurse?" 

"Number  Three  is  gone,  sir,"  she  answered. 

He  came  up  to  the  bed,  took  the  little,  thin  wrist  in 
his  hand  for  a  moment,  and  then  laid  it  down,  saying: 

"Yes.  I  will  give  orders  for  the.  removal  of  the  body." 

And  the  physician  passed  on  and  left  the  ward  by  the 
door  at  its  furthest  extremity. 

"Where  will  they  take  him  ?"  whispered  Rachel. 

"To  the  dead-house,"  answered  the  nurse. 

Rachel  lingered  a  little  longer,  and  then  seeing  the 
opposite  door  open  and  two  men  bearing  between  them 
a  stretcher,  she  stooped  and  pressed  a  good-by  kiss 
upon  little  Benny's  brow,  and  turned  and  went  out. 

She  bent  her  steps  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

A   COMFORTER. 

When  Rachel  Wood  reached  the  house  in  Junk  lane 
she  found  a  crowd  collected  before  the  doors — a  very 
disreputable  crowd  of  ragged,  dirty  and  more  or  less 
tipsy  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls. 

Surprised  and  alarmed,  yet  not  daring  to  question 
any  one  that  she  saw  outside,  Rachel  Wood  made  her 
way  through  them  as  best  she  could  and  entered  the 
house,  and  turned  into  Mrs.  Kempton's  old-clothes 
shop. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  outside?"  she  inquired 
of  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  who  was,  as  usual,  sitting 
sewing  behind  the  counter,  in  her  grove  of  dangling 
dresses. 

"Oh,  Rachel,  it's  inside  the  matter  is,  not  outside! 
The  captain's  took!"  said  the  old-clothes  woman. 

"Took!  Do  you  mean  that  Captain  Faulkner  has 
been  arrested?" 


280  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"Captain  Sydney,  child ;  Captain  Sydney  have." 

"What  for,  for  Heaven's  sake?" 

"For  debt,  in  course;  what  else?  But  sit  down  Rachel 
— sit  down,  girl;  you  look  ready  to  drop,"  said  Mrs. 
Kempton,  pushing  a  chair  toward  her  visitor. 

Rachel  went  round  the  counter,  and  took  the  offered 
seat. 

"And  now  tell  me  all  about  It,"  she  said. 

"Lor,  child,  you  hadn't  hardly  turned  your  back — 
leastways,  1  know  you  hadn't  more'n  turned  the  corner 
of  the  lane  into  the  alley — afore  the  sheriff's  officer 
come  and  levied  onto  all  their  goods — all,  Rachel, 
everythink — even  the  new  blankets  and  things  as  she 
bought  yesterday,  poor  thing!" 

"Oh,  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  this,"  sighed  the  seam 
stress. 

"The  captain  he  was  out  at  the  time;  and  the  poor 
wife!  Oh,  you  ought  to  a  seen  how  she  cried  and 
screamed  and  wrung  her  hands  and  went  on,  pleading 
with  the  officers  to  take  pity  on  her  poor  children, 
"which  in  course  the  men  couldn't  do,  being  obligated 
to  perform  their  dooty." 

"And  has  not  Captain  Faulkner  returned?"  inquired 
Rachel. 

"Captain  Sydney,  you  mean?  Oh,  lor,  yes.  He  came 
back  right  in  the  middle  of  it  all.  No  sooner  had  the 
captain  come  in,  and  before  he  had  time  to  bluster  and 
blow  up  the  baillies,  as  he  was  just  about  to  do,  in 
comes  another  baillie  with  another  writ  for  another 
debt,  and  nabs  my  captain  himself,  and  hauls  him  off 
to  prison.  Oh,  then  you  should  a  seen  how  the  wife 
went  on !  All  she  said  and  did  before  was  nothing  to  it. 
She  raved ;  she  tore  handfuls  of  hair  out  of  her  head. 
I  took  hold  of  her,  and  it  was  as  much  as  ever  I  could 
do  to  hold  her.  And  all  this  had  no  more  effect  on 
them  there  baillies  than  nothing  at  all." 

"But  the  captain?  What  a  severe  trial  it  must  have 
been  to  him,  poor  man,  to  be  taken  away  from  his  wife 
at  such  a  time !"  said  Rachel. 

"You'd  better  believe  it.  It  run  him  wild.  He  strug 
gled  to  get  away  from  the  officers  and  come  to  her.  And 


THE  LOST  HEIR  o81 

And  the  poor  wife?" 

"How  is  the  poor  lady  now?"  inquired  Rachel 


2? 


"* 


open,  and  she  saw  that  the  fnrnfSr 
off.  and  the  floors  covered  Jth  th 
removal.     She  meant  tn  oT 


RSSSa  couid  not  h-  *d  2SJT5S 

sn:  S^^ssjtsir^  but  *** 

again,  and  land  him  down.  m  "P  and  fed  Wm 


282  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Then  she  went  and  rapped  at  the  closed  door  of 
the  Faulkners'  bedchamber. 

The  voice  of  the  young  wife  bade  her  to  come  in. 

She  entered  the  room  and  found  a  scene  of  heart 
breaking  desolation. 

The  furniture  had  all  been  taken  away  with  the  ex 
ception  of  one  poor  mattress  that  was  thrown  down 
upon  the  floor.  On  this  lay  the  young  mother,  with  her 
five  babies  weeping  around  her.  Old  wearing  apparel, 
thrown  out  from  the  bureaus  and  presses  that  had  been 
seized,  was  strewn  about  the  floor.  There  was  nothing 
else  left  in  the  desolate  room. 

"Is  it  you,  Kachel?"  said  the  poor  lady,  as  soon  as  she 
saw  the  seamstress.  "Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come 
back!  Oh,  see  what  they've  done  to  me,  Eachel!  And 
see  what  they've  done  to  my  poor  Charley!  They've 
taken  everything  we  possess  in  the  world,  except  this 
miserable  bed,  and  the  few  rags  of  clothes!  And  they 
would  have  taken  these,  too,  if  the  law  had  let  them. 
But,  oh,  worse  than  all,  they  have  dragged  off  my  poor 
Charley  to  prison!  Yes,  they  knocked  him  down  when 
he  resisted — knocked  him  down  and  dragged  him  off 
as  if  he  had  been  a  dog.  Oh !  Oh !  what  shall  I  do?"  she 
exclaimed,  bursting  into  tears,  while  the  children  wept 
aloud. 

"You  need  not  be  idle,  dear  Mrs.  Faulkner." 

"What  can  I  do?"  despairingly  inquired  the  young 
wife. 

"You  may  take  steps  to  night  that  may  lead  to  your 
husband's  release  to-morrow." 

"Oh!  tell  me  how  to  do  that,  and  I  will  bless  you, 
Rachel  Wood!"  exclaimed  the  poor  lady,  starting  up. 

"You  can  write  to  your  father,  and  I  will  take  the 
letter  and  put  it  into  his  own  hands.  He  will  not,  he 
cannot,  refuse  to  help  you  under  the  present  circum 
stances." 

"Yes!  yes!  yes!  I  will  write  to  him  immediately!  Oh, 
I  thank  you,  Rachel,  for  your  guidance !  You  are  a  good 
pilot  to  take  me  through  this  stormy  sea !  I  will  write 
now — Ah!  Heaven!  but  the  wretches  have  not  left  me 
chair  or  table,  or  even  pen,  ink  or  paper  to  write  with !" 


THE  LOST  HEIR  283 

la!'  abode.  *  ^^  ^  **  ^^  ar°Und  her  **<>• 

Never  mind!   We  shall  improve  all  this  to-morrow 
cv-  mm*  ,nfrt  r™  room  and  wp.te  youp  ,ett     - 


npX  ^e  Jf  te™  flnished'  Rachel  put  on  her  bon 
net  and  shawl  and  set  out  with  it  to  Charles  street 
The  hour  was  late,  and  the  distance  long.    So  when 


WestFnd  o    ae         to 

West  End.    She  knew  that  she  herself  could  not 
possibly  afford  the  outlay  of  money  required  to  pay 

that 


mwiv  -  su 

illingly  defray  the  expenses  of  her  little  journey 

After  an  hour's  drive  the  cab  reached  Charles  street 
^^Sy^^^^^' 
SSha(i  t0pr°ceed  ca««°«sly  on  her 


. 
It  happened  that  Mary  Kempton  was  at  that  moment 

housekeeper's  room- 


"I  want  you  to  take  me  to  Mrs.  Melliss  at  once,  Mary  • 
to  say  to  ^r,»  whispered  the  seam- 


C°me  along  with  me"  rePljed  the  girl 

floor'  and 


ten 

!tUmed  iU  *  teW  minutes'  and  told  Rachel  to 


gon 

alone  ^r£*SS^nt  ^  the  r°°m'  and  found 
alone  with  the  mistress  of  the  mansion. 

«,  M,y  P°KorRachel!  "must  be  something  very  unusual 

bankera'?w?fUght  T'""  ttta  W8y  at  this  ^'  said  "^ 
hnmht    •  •    '  3S  "he  ar°Se  and  shook  hands  with  her 

not  ' 


"No,  madam.    I  came  in  a  cab,  and  it  is  waiting  for 


284  THE  LOST  HEIR 

me  at  the  door,"  answered  the  seamstress  as  she  sat 
down. 

"Ah !  that  is  well ;  I  am  glad  you  did.  And  now  your 
errand,  my  dear  girl,  for  your  face  tells  me  that  it  is 
important,"  said  the  lady  anxiously. 

"Yes;  it  is  important,  dear  Mrs.  Melliss.  Captain 
Faulkner  has  been  arrested  for  debt,  and  is  now  in 
the  Queen's  Bench.  His  little  personal  property  has 
also  been  seized  to  satisfy  other  creditors.  I  need  not 
describe  the  deep  distress  of  his  wife  and  little  chil 
dren." 

"Good  Heaven,  Rachel!  This  is  a  dreadful  piece  of 
news!  This  must  be  seen  to  immediately!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Melliss. 

"It  is  for  that  I  came.  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Faulkner  to  her  father,  which  I  promised 
to  put  into  his  own  hands.  Will  you  manage  it  for  me, 
dear  Mrs.  Melliss?" 

"With  great  pleasure,  Rachel.  I  would  take  it  to  him 
myself,  and  back  it  with  my  best  influence  with  my  hus 
band,  but  you  know  what  I  told  you — that  I  am  abso 
lutely  forbidden  to  mention  the  name  of  his  daughter 
or  his  son-in-law  in  his  presence." 

"I  know  that,  dear  madam." 

"But  I  will  take  you  to  him.    Come!" 

And  the  lady  arose  and  opened  the  communicating 
door  between  her  own  boudoir  and  her  husband's  read 
ing  room. 

The  banker  sat  at  a  table,  engaged  in  writing.  But, 
on  seeing  his  beautiful  young  wife,  he  immediately  laid 
aside  his  pen,  and  looked  up  with  a  welcoming  smile. 

"Here  is  Rachel  Wood,  my  seamstress,  who  wishes  to 
speak  with  you,  dear.  Can  you  see  her  now?" 

"Certainly,"  said  the  banker.    "Let  her  come  in." 

And  Rachel  Wood  entered  the  room.  And  Mrs.  Mel 
liss  retired  and  closed  the  door  behind  her,  leaving  the 
seamstress  and  the  banker  tete-d-tete. 

A  very  anxious  half  hour  passed.  Mrs.  Melliss  could 
not  sit  still.  She  paced  restlessly  up  and  down  the 
floor  until  the  door  opened,  and  the  banker  appeared, 
followed  by  the  seamstress. 


THE  LOST  HEIB  285 

" 


286  THE  LOST  HEIK 

"Quite  right.  Good-night,"  said  Mr.  Melliss,  as  he 
left  the  room  and  withdrew  to  his  study. 

Kachel  was  also  about  to  take  leave,  but  Mrs.  Melliss 
made  a  sign  for  her  to  stay. 

Angela  Melliss  had  closely  watched  the  interview 
between  her  husband  and  his  daughter's  messenger. 

And  she  came  to  a  strange  conclusion — that  though 
Mr.  Melliss  might  not,  to  use  his  own  words,  "lift  a 
finger  to  help"  his  daughter,  except  upon  the  condition 
that  she  would  leave  her  shiftless  husband,  yet  he 
would  not  be  displeased  if  she,  Angela,  privately  as 
sisted  her. 

"Else  why,"  inquired  the  young  wife  of  herself— 
"why  should  he  hurry  away  and  leave  me  alone  with 
her  messenger,  knowing,  as  well  as  he  does,  how  much 
I  pity  her?" 

"It  is  growing  late,  dear  Mrs.  Melliss.  If  you  have 

anything  to  say  to  me "  began  Rachel,  but  she  was 

interrupted  by  the  lady. 

"Yes,  Rachel,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  And 
you  need  not  mind  about  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  You 
have  a  cab,  you  remember,  which,  as  you  engaged  it  in 
our  service,  you  must  allow  me  to  pay  for." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Melliss." 

"And  a  part  of  what  I  have  to  say  to  you  is  this, 
Rachel — that  from  all  you  have  told  me  of  her,  I  do  not 
think  it  possible  that  Mrs.  Faulkner  will  accept  the 
conditions  of  her  father's  letter." 

"I  am  sure  that  she  will  not,  madam." 

"But  for  all  that,  you  must  give  her  the  letter." 

"I  know  it!"  sighed  Rachel. 

"But  you  must  not  let  her  despair.  You  must  com 
fort  her  to-night.  Assure  her  that  her  husband  shall 
be  released  from  prison  to-morrow.  But  do  not  men 
tion  my  name  as  a  possible  benefactress.  If  she  presses 
to  be  informed  as  to  who  will  release  her  husband  from 
prison,  assure  her  that  you  are  not  at  liberty  to  tell 
her." 

"And  she  will  think  it  is  her  father  helping  her 
secretly,  because  she  believes  he  cannot  venture  to  do  so 
openly,"  said  Rachel,  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  287 


in  the 


l  will  do  so,  madam." 

woman,"  as  she  styled  Mrs  MeTL  J  S™S 

h(Ka<     1  was  sworn  to  secrecy  and'dare  not  undeceive 


expected,  but  the  beautiful 


288  THE  LOST  HEIR 

i 

CHAPTEK  XXXVII. 

THE    HAUNTING    FACE    AGAIN. 

What  could  have  brought  the  fair  partician  to  this 
poor  neighborhood,  and  alone  and  unattended? 

Rachel  was  too  much  amazed  to  speak,  but  she 
silently  placed  a  chair,  which  her  visitor,  with  a  bow, 
immediately  took. 

"I  saw  you  at  the  hospital  yesterday,"  said  the 
duchess,  in  a  voice  low  and  tremulous  with  suppressed 
emotion. 

"Yes,  madam,"  answered  the  seamstress. 

"We  met  there  at  the  bedside  of  a  sick  boy — a  very 
fair,  interesting  child." 

"Yes,  madam." 

"The  child  is  since  dead,"  continued  the  duchess,  and 
then  her  voice  broke  down  as  she  added :  "I  went  there 
this  morning  to  see  him  once  more.  I  found  his  little 
cot  empty.  They  told  me  that  he  had  died  the  evening 
before." 

"Yes,  madam,  he  died  soon  after  you  left.  He  went 
off  without  suffering,  and  very  gently.  And — it  is 
well,"  said  Rachel  Wood. 

"Yes,  it  is  well.  And  yet  it  is  very  strange.  I  cannot 
help  weeping."  And  here  the  duchess  gave  way  for  a 
time  to  her  quiet  tears,  and  then  resumed : 

"I  asked  to  see  the  little  body.  But  they  told  me 
that  it  had  been  taken  to  the  dead-house,  where  there 
were  some  cases  recently  dead  of  contagious  fevers,  and 
advised  me  not  to  venture  thither.  And,  of  course,  on 
my  children's  account,  I  would  not  run  the  risk  of 
taking  the  fever  home  with  me.  But  I  was  overcome, 
Miss  Wood ;  I  do  not  know  why." 

"It  is  always  very  affecting  to  see  children  suffer  and 
die,"  said  the  seamstress,  not  well  knowing  what  else 
to  say  to  her  weeping  visitor. 

"There  was  a  woman  present  who  had  also  come  to 
see  the  sick  child.  Her  name  was  Oaks — no,  Pine— « 


THE  LOST  HEIR  289 

Elin? — what  was  it?"  inquired  the  duchess  of  herself, 
in  perplexity. 

"It  was  Juniper,  perhaps,"  suggested  Rachel  Wood. 

"That  was  it.  I  remember  that  it  was  the  name  of  a 
tree,"  said  the  duchess,  smiling  through  her  tears.  "It 
was  Juniper.  And  when  I  inquired  after  the  friend  of 
the  dead  boy  whom  I  had  seen  on  the  preceding  day — 
meaning  yourself,  Miss  Wood — the  nurse  could  not  tell 
me  anything  about  you.  But  this  woman,  Mrs.  Juniper, 
asked  a  few  questions  of  the  nurse  as  to  your  personal 
appearance,  and  having  received  satisfactory  answers, 
said  at  once  that  your  name  was  Rachel  Wood,  and 
that  you  lived  here.  I  sent  my  little  Alick  home  in 
the  brougham,  and  I  took  a  close  cab  and  came  hither. 
And  now  I  suppose  you  will  wonder  why  I  am  here." 

"I  shall  at  least  be  very  happy  to  serve  your  grace  in 
any  way  that  I  can,"  respectfully  answered  Rachel 
Wood. 

"I  came,"  gravely  began  the  young  duchess,  "to  learn 
all  I  can  of  that  child's  life  from  you ;  who,  I  am  told, 
have  known  him  from  his  infancy.  Is  this  true?" 

"Yes,  madam.  I  have  known  little  Benny  from  the 
time  his  foster-mother  brought  him  from  Scotland,"  an 
swered  Rachel. 

"From  Scotland!"  echoed  the  duchess,  while  a 
strange  thrill  passed  over  her  frame.  But  she  con 
trolled  the  emotion  which  she  could  not  understand, 
and  said,  very  calmly: 

"You  wonder,  Miss  Wood,  and,  indeed,  I  also  wonder, 
at  the  strange  and  morbid  interest  I  take  in  this  dead 
child,  who  was  an  entire  stranger  to  me.  But,  in  truth, 
I  think  I  have  seen  him  three  times  in  my  life  under 
peculiar  circumstances,  not  easily  forgotten,"  she 
added,  and  then  fell  for  a  few  seconds  into  a  thoughtful 
pause. 

Rachel  Wood  waited  in  respectful  silence  until  the 
lady  resumed. 

"When  I  saw  the  little,  pale,  patient  face  lying  on 
the  hospital  pillow,  I  did  not  recognize  it  at  all  as  one  I 
had  ever  seen  before,  though  there  was  something  in  it, 
even  then,  that  deeply  moved  me.  But  when  I  went 


290  THE  LOST  HEIR 

home  and  recalled  that  little  face,  with  its  clear  com 
plexion,  fair  flaxen  hair,  broad  brow  and  blue  eyes,  its 
refined  features  and  its  look  of  patient  suffering,  two 
other  faces  came  up  beside  it — one  of  a  babe  that  I  had 
seen  in  its  mother's  arms  before  St.  George's  Church 
on  the  morning  of  my  marriage,  and  the  other  that  of 
a  fair  street  boy  whom  I  saw  on  Brunswick  terrrace, 
Brighton,  on  Twelfth-night.  I  saw  both,  as  I  said 
before,  under  circumstances  not  easily  forgotten,  but 
which  it  is  not  necessary  to  describe  now.  But,  Miss 
Wood,  when  I  saw  in  my  mind's  eye  those  three  fair, 
refined,  patient,  suffering  little  faces,  I  knew  that  they 
were  one  and  the  same.  That  is  all.  Now  tell  me  who 
were  this  child's  parents?" 

They  are  not  known,  madam.  The  poor  child  was  a 
stray.  Magdalena  Hurst,  the  woman  who  brought  him 
up,  was  his  foster-mother,"  replied  Rachel. 

"Magdalene  Hurst,  did  you  say?  It  seems  to  me  that 
there  is  a  faint  echo  in  such  a  name  somewhere  in  my 
memory.  Did  you  say  Magdelene  Hurst?" 

"Yes,  madam;  she  was  the  stewardess  on  the  Shaft, 
plying  between  London  and  the  western  parts  of  Scot 
land.  She  was  taken  ill  one  day  on  the  steamer,  and 
was  put  ashore  at  Killford." 

"Killford !"  echoed  the  duchess. 

"Yes,  madam;  and  she  was  confined  there.  And  it 
seems  that  her  baby  died.  And  as  she  had  just  heard  of 
the  sudden  death  of  her  husband,  the  death  of  her  child 
was  concealed  from  her  in  mistaken  mercy,  and  this 
child  of  unknown  parents — this  little  Benny — was 
placed  in  her  arms  as  her  own." 

"By  whom?  by  whom?"  breathlessly  inquired  the 
duchess. 

"By  the  attendant  physician.  It  seems  that  he  had 
brought  it  only  to  place  it  at  nurse  with  this  Magdalene 
Hurst ;  but,  finding  the  woman  in  an  opium  sleep,  and 
hearing  from  the  nurse  that  her  baby  was  dead,  but 
that  the  mother  did  not  know  it,  he  bribed  and  swore 
the  midwife  to  silence,  and  then  substituted  the  living 
child  for  the  dead  one,  and  took  away  the  dead  one 
and  buried  it." 


THE  LOST  HEIR  291 

"That  doctor's  name?  that  doctor's  name?"  gasped 
the  lady,  scarcely  able  to  conceal  her  emotion. 

"I  do  not  know  it,  madam.  He  was  some  country 
practitioner  in  or  near  Killford,"  replied  Rachel. 

"And  is  this  all  you  can  tell  me?  Was  there  no  sur 
mise  as  to  the  parentage  of  the  child  ?  And  how  did  the 
woman  Hurst  discover  the  fraud  that  had  been  prac 
ticed  upon  her?" 

"I  can  answer  both  your  grace's  questions  in  one. 
When  this  abandoned  child,  little  Benny,  was  about 
twelve  months  old  or  so,  this  woman,  Magdalene  Hurst, 
received  a  message  from  the  midwife  who  had  nursed 
her  through  her  confinement.  The  message  waa 
brought  by  a  fireman  on  board  the  Shaft,  plying  be 
tween  London  and  Killford  and  other  western  ports. 
The  message  was  to  the  effect  that  Madge  should  go  to 
Scotland  to  hear  an  important  secret  that  the  midwife 
had  to  confide  to  her.  Madge,  having  the  freedom  of 
the  Shaft  as  its  old  stewardess,  went  to  Killford  by  the 
very  next  trip  of  the  boat.  She  made  her  way  to  the 
midwife's  cottage,  where  she  found  the  old  woman 
dying " 

"And,  of  course,  heard  a  deathbed  confession,"  mur 
mured  the  duchess. 

"Yes,  madam.  Then  for  the  first  time  Madge  learned 
that  her  own  child  was  dead  and  buried,  and  that  some 
other  woman's  abandoned  babe  had  been  palmed  off 
upon  her  in  its  stead." 

"By  whom?" 

"Your  grace  will  please  remember  that  I  told  you  be 
fore,  by  this  midwife  and  the  medical  attendant,  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten,  if  indeed  I  ever  even  heard  it." 

"But  whose  child  was  this?  Had  they  no  knowledge, 
no,  clew,  no  suspicion?" 

"But  very  slight.  The  nurse  told  Madge  that  the 
doctor  had  told  her  that  the  substituted  babe  was  the 
child  of  a  lady  of  Stirling  or  of  Callender — she  had  for 
gotten  which — but  that  the  lady  had  died  in  her  con 
finement." 

As  Rachel  spoke  these  last  words,  the  excitement  of 


292  THE  LOST  HEIR 

her  visitor  perceptibly  subsided,  and  she  more  calmly 
remarked : 

"I  felt  great  interest  in  that  poor  child.  Pray,  how 
did  this  woman  Madge  treat  the  innocent  babe  left  to 
her  uncertain  mercy?" 

"Very  capriciously,  madam — fondling  or  beating 
him,  without  any  good  reason  for  the  one  or  the  other 
treatment.  It  is  good  that  he  has  gone  to  heaven, 
madam." 

"It  is  very  well,"  sighed  the  duchess.  "But  did  this 
woman  throw  him  off  at  length?" 

"Oh,  no,  madam.  With  all  her  faults,  she  would 
never  have  done  that,  I  think." 

"Where  is  she,  then?  She  might  be  able  to  tell  me 
more." 

"Ah!  madam,  do  you  not  remember  that  celebrated 
trial  of  the  woman  who  strangled  her  rival  to  death, 
but  was  acquitted  of  murder  on  the  plea  of  insanity?" 

"Certainly  I  do ;  but  that  woman's  name  was  Brice." 

"It  is  the  same,  your  grace.  Magdalene  Hurst  mar 
ried,  as  her  second  husband,  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Brice,  who  was  not  very  faithful  to  her.  She  stranged 
her  rival  in  a  fit  of  insanity.  And  now  she  is  a  lifelong 
prisoner  in  the  Asylum  for  Criminal  Lunatics,  and,  al 
though  her  insanity  was  a  very  doubtful  matter  at  the 
time  of  her  imprisonment,  it  is  a  very  certain  one  now. 
She  is  hopelessly  mad." 

"Poor  creature !  Then  there  is  nothing  to  be  learned 
from  her." 

"There  was  nothing  to  be  learned  from  her  on  that 
subject  even  before  her  madness — at  least,  nothing 
more  than  I  have  told  you.  Madge,  as  soon  as  she  had 
heard  the  secret  told  her  by  the  dying  woman,  made  the 
most  particular  inquiries  in  the  village  and  in  the 
neighborhood,  but  could  discover  nothing  more,  not 
even  the  register  of  her  child's  death,  or  the  place 
of  its  burial.  She  was  only  laughed  at  for  her  credulity 
in  believing  the  nurse's  story,  which  was  set  down  as 
the  hallucination  of  a  decaying  brain." 

"But  the  doctor — the  doctor  who  had  attended  her, 


THE  LOST  HEIR  293 

and  who  had  practiced  this  fraud  upon  her — could 
she  not  have  found  him?" 

"The  doctor  had  been  dead  for  months,"  answered 
Rachel,  gravely. 

"The  doctor  dead !"  echoed  the  duchess,  in  a  strange 
low  tone. 

"Yes  the  doctor  had  died  and  made  no  sign,"  con 
tinued  Rachel. 

"Perhaps  he  made  a  sign,  though  not  a  very  clear- 
one,"  murmured  the  duchess,  as  she  remembered  the 
strange  incidents  of  Dr.  Seton's  deathbed. 

Her  voice  did  not  this  time  reach  the  seamstress* 
ears. 

"And  so  she  never  gained  a  clew  to  the  parentage  of 
the  child?" 

"No,  madam ;  the  secret  seemed  to  have  died  with  the 
doctor  who  attended  the  woman." 

"And  that  is  all?" 

"That  is  all,  except  this  trifling  incident— that  the 
woman  found  in  the  nurse's  hut  an  elegant  little  em 
broidered  sack  and  sock  that  could  not  have  been  made 
for  any  but  an  infant  of  rank." 

"Where  are  those  relics  ?" 

"It  would  be  hard  to  tell.  After  Madge  came  back 
from  Scotland  with  the  infant  she  very  carefully  pre 
served  those  little  garments,  believing  that  some  day 
they  might  lead  to  the  discovery  of  the  child's  parents 
and  also  help  to  identify  the  child  himself.  But  what 
ever  became  of  them  in  the  confusion  that  followed  the 
murder  of  the  ballet  girl  and  the  arrest  of  Madge  I  do 
not  know.  When  Madge  was  sent  to  the  Criminal 
Lunatic  Asylum  her  husband  was  in  prison.  As  soon 
as  he  got  out  he  came  here  and  sold  off  everything,  and 
went,  it  is  supposed,  to  America." 

"Miss  Wood,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  in  the 
meantime,  became  of  the  unfortunate  boy." 

"He  was  taken  away  to  Brighton  by  the  old  mother 
of  Madge.  And  I  lost  sight  of  him  for  some  time — 
until,  indeed,  I  found  him  ill  of  the  fever  in  which  he 
was  taken  to  the  hospital,  where  your  grace  also  saw 
him." 


294  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"He  is  the  same  boy  I  have  seen  at  intervals  three 
times,  and  whose  face  haunts  me  like  a  spirit.  Miss 
Wood,  would  it  trouble  you  too  much  to  give  me  a  de 
tailed  account  of  that  poor  child's  life  as  you  have  wit 
nessed  it?" 

"Not  at  all,  your  grace.  I  will  willingly  tell  you  all  I 
know." 

And  Rachel  related  the  London  life  of  little  Benny  as 
far  as  she  was  acquainted  with  it. 

The  duchess  shed  tears  over  the  sad  story,  and  at  its 
close  she  thanked  the  narrator  and  arose  and  took 
leave. 

She  drew  her  thick  veil  over  her  face  and  went  down* 
stairs  and  entered  the  close  carriage  that  was  waiting 
for  her  below. 

She  gave  the  order  to  the  cabman  to  drive  her  to 
"Very's,"  where  she  had  directed  her  own  brougham  to 
meet  her. 

And  then  she  sank  back  in  her  seat  and  burst  into 
tears  and  wept  passionately,  thinking  all  the  while: 

"My  first-born  child  is  dead.  And  this  child,  that 
my  heart  so  yearns  over,  is  also  dead.  It  is  well.  It  is 
well,  I  suppose;  and  yet,  oh,  oh!  I  have  that  on  my 
mind  that  must  forever  impair  its  peace!" 

So  sighing,  and  mourning  over  her  vague  suspicions 
of  the  truth,  poor  little  Benny's  beautiful  mother  went 
back  to  her  palace  home,  leaving  him 

Where? 

In  the  deadhouse  of  the  Middlesex  Hospital? 

No.  It  is  not  every  body  carried  into  the  deadhouse 
that  remains  there  until  it  is  carried  to  its  grave. 

Little  Benny  lay  stretched  out  upon  the  "cooling 
board"  in  the  same  room  with  two  other  bodies. 

He  lay  there  all  night,  and  until  nearly  noon  of  the 
next  day. 

Then  the  undertaker  came  to  put  the  bodies  in  their 
coffins. 

He  placed  two  in  their  last  narrow  cradles,  and  then 
lifted  little  Benny's  light  form,  but  immediately  let  it 
down  again,  whispering  in  a  scared  tone  of  voice  to  his 
assistant : 


THE  LOST  HEIR  295 

"Hallo,  Bill,  hold  hard!  I'm  blowed  if  we  wa'n't 
just  agwine  to  bury  this  shaver  alive !" 

"What?"  asked  the  other,  under  his  breath. 

"This  one's  alive,  I  tell  you !  He's  warm.  I'm  blest 
if  he  ain't  in  a  prespuration  under  his  armpits,"  added 
the  man,  as  he  pursued  his  investigations. 

"Then  we'd  better  not  nail  him  down  in  the  coffin, 
J'm  thinking,"  remarked  the  other,  gazing  curiously  at 
the  subject. 

"Nail  him  down  in  the  coffin,  you  born  fool!  Nail 
the  live  boy  down  in  the  coffin,  even  'sposin'  he  is  a 
pauper?" 

"Well,  I  wa'n't  a  saying  we'd  do  it;  I  was  saying 
as  we'd  better  not." 

"I  should  think  so,  unless  we'd  like  to  be  scragged 
for  murder." 

"Then  what  will  we  do  at  all?" 

"Go  call  the  doctor,  and  he'll  tell  you." 

The  undertaker's  man  went  in  search  of  the  physician 
in  charge;  but  that  gentleman  could  not  be  found. 

An  assistant  surgeon,  however,  came  to  the  dead- 
house,  examined  the  subject,  decided  that  "it  was  not 
a  corpse,  but  a  patient,"  and  ordered  him  to  be  taken 
immediately  back  to  his  bed,  where  we  must  leave  him 
for  the  present. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE  GOOD  FAMY'S  WAND. 

After  the  beautiful  young  duchess  had  left  her,  Ra 
chel  Wood  sat  sewing  on  the  everlasting  "shirt,"  and 
thinking  on  all  that  had  just  passed,  until  a  sharp 
knock  at  her  room  door  aroused  her. 

She  arose  to  admit  the  visitor,  and  with  more  pleas 
ure  than  surprise  she  met  the  sweet  face  of  Angela  Mel- 
liss  smiling  on  her. 

"Well,  Rachel,  dear,  I  am  here  at  last.  How  are  the 
children?"  she  inquired,  as  she  entered  the  humble 
apartment  of  the  seamstress. 


296  THE  LOST  HEIR 

"The  children  are  quite  well,  Mrs.  Melliss,"  answered 
Eachel. 

And  she  arose  and  led  the  way  across  the  hall  to  the 
room  occupied  by  the  Faulkners. 

As  she  opened  the  door  Angela  Melliss  shrank  back 
suddenly,  surprised  and  repelled  by  the  aspect  of  the 
place. 

"A  chamber  of  desolation,"  indeed  it  was. 

The  floor,  from  which  the  carpet  had  been  rudely 
torn,  was  left  covered  half -inch  thick  with  dust. 

Piles  of  shabby  clothing,  thrown  out  of  bureaus  and 
boxes  that  had  been  seized,  lay  about  the  one  poor  mat 
tress  that  had  been  left  there. 

And  on  this  mattress  the  children  were  playing  at 
throwing  pillows  over  each  other. 

The  children  stopped  at  the  sight  of  the  lady. 

The  little  six-year-old  woman  Mary  whispered : 

"You  must  be  good  now.    There  are  visitors." 

"It's  only  Fay  Dammer!  She  won't  mind,"  said  lit 
tle  Lily,  scrambling  out  of  the  confusion  of  bedclothes 
and  the  cloud  of  dust,  and  running  up  to  greet  her 
friend. 

"My  poor  darling!"  murmured  Mrs.  Melliss,  instinct 
ively  shrinking  from  contact  with  the  dusty  child,  but 
immediately  recovering,  and  caressing  the  little  golden- 
haired  head. 

"Oh !  what  a  sight,  Rachel !  Their  mother,  I  suppose, 
tias  gone  to  visit  her  imprisoned  husband." 

"Yes,  madam!" 

"I  hope  she  will  not  be  likely  to  come  home  soon.  I 
wish  to  do  a  great  deal  before  she  comes." 

And  a  great  deal  it  truly  was,  for  Mrs.  Melliss  had 
brought  sundry  packages  of  clothing  with  her,  and  as 
soon  as  the  children  were  washed  they  were  arrayed  in 
their  new  garments,  then  placed  in  a  cab  and  driven  out 
over  Waterloo  Bridge  to  a  charming  cottage  at  Syden- 
ham. 

A  lovely  little  miniature  villa  it  was! 

They  entered  a  hall,  on  each  side  of  which  were 
stained  glass  doors,  leading  into  the  drawing-room, 
dining-room,  sitting-room  and  library,  on  the  first  floor. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  297 

Opposite  the  front  door,  and  at  the  back  of  the  hall, 
was  a  French  window  glazed  with  stained  glass,  and 
now  open,  and  revealing  a  flight  of  steps  leading  into 
the  garden  below. 

The  housekeeper  or  caretaker  of  the  premises,  turn 
ing  back  to  Mrs.  Melliss,  said : 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  the  little  ones  upstairs  to 
the  bedrooms,  ma'am,  to  lay  off  their  bonnets  before 
they  have  luncheon?" 

"Yes,  certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Melliss,  and,  assisted  by 
Rachel  W<5od  and  Mary  Kempton,  she  took  the  children 
upstairs  into  one  of  the  fresh,  fragrant,  white-draped 
bedrooms  to  prepare  them  for  their  repast. 

"Oh!  what  a  lovely,  lovely  place!  Oh,  an't  this  a 
holiday!"  exclaimed  Master  Charley. 

And  all  the  children  chimed  in  with  his  notes  of  ad 
miration. 

When  they  had  sufficiently  admired  the  white  enam 
eled  chamber  furniture,  and  the  white  curtained  win 
dows,  with  bird  cages  hung  between  the  folds  of  the 
curtains,  and  all  the  pretty  objects  about  the  suburban 
cottage,  they  willingly  followed  their  fairy  grand 
mother  and  her  attendants  to  the  rooms  below. 

There  new  delights  awaited  them.  TJiey  were  shown 
the  pretty  drawing-room,  with  its  pale  blue  damask 
and  silver  hangings  and  covers,  and  its  delicate  lace 
curtains ;  and  the  cozy  parlor,  with  its  dark  green  fur 
niture;  and  the  library,  with  its  pictures  and  busts, 
and  with  its  bookcases,  not  yet  filled,  and  its  tables 
adorned  with  a  few  fine  illustrated  volumes. 

And  then  they  were  taken  into  the  neat,  clean,  cool 
dining-room,  with  its  nicely-set  luncheon-table. 

"Oh !  this  is  a  holiday !  you  bet !"  said  Master  Char 
ley. 

"It  must  have  cost  a  deal  of  money,"  said  grave  Miss 
Mary. 

"It  an't  polite  to  talk  about  tost,  Mary.  Papa  al 
ways  says  so,"  put  in  Miss  Ada. 

"And  now,  here  is  our  luncheon  all  ready,  my  chil 
dren.  So  we  will  gather  around  the  table  and  take  it," 
said  Mrs.  Melliss. 


298  THE  LOST  HEIR 

And,  assisted  by  Mary  and  Rachel,  she  placed  all  the 
little  ones  at  the  well-spread  table,  and  afterward 
helped  them  to  dainties  to  which,  poor  children!  they 
were  very  little  accustomed ;  for  to  their  familiar  bread 
and  butter  were  added  broiled  spring  chicken,  lettuce, 
radishes,  cheese,  cream  cakes  and  sweetmeats. 

When  the  children  had  finished  their  repast,  little 
Lily,  the  irrepressible  and  demonstrative,  came  up  to 
her  fairy  grandmother's  side,  and  whispered: 

"Fay  dammer,  I  want  to  ast  you  somefin'." 

"Ask  what  you  please,  my  darling." 

"May  us  do  and  p'ay  in  de  darden?" 

"Yes,  love;  go  and  play  in  the  garden  as  much  as  you 
please." 

"Tome  along,  tildern!"  called  the  little  leader  of 
three  years  old,  as  she  ran  out  through  the  open  French 
window  at  the  back  of  the  hall. 

Her  brothers  and  sisters  followed  her  with  shouts  of 
joy,  and  disappeared  among  the  shrubbery  of  the  gar 
den  below. 

The  children  had  scarcely  left  the  house  before  a 
"hansom"  pulled  up  at  the  front  gate,  and  a  young 
gentleman  alighted  from  it. 

Mrs.  Melliss  went  down  the  garden  walk  to  receive 
him;  for  he  was  no  other  than  her  stepson,  Mr.  Percy 
Melliss,  barrister,  come  there  to  meet  her  by  appoint 
ment. 

"Well,  my  dear  Percy,  how  have  you  sped  ?"  inquired 
his  stepmother.  "But  come  injto  the  house  and  sit 
down,  before  you  tell  me,"  she  added,  leading  the  way 
into  the  cottage. 

When  both  were  seated  in  the  pretty  blue  and  white 
drawing-room,  she  asked  him  again: 

"How  have  you  sped  in  your  mission,  dearest  Percy?" 

"Thanks  to  your  munificence,  sweet  mother,  I  sped  as 
people  speed  who  have  their  pockets  full  of  money," 
answered  the  young  man,  with  a  smile. 

"Well?" 

"I  have  bought  up  all  the  outstanding  claims  against 
that  poor  man,  as  far  as  I  could  ascertain  them,  and 
now,  as  your  agent,  I  am  his  only  creditor.  And  as 


THE  LOST  HEIR  299 

you  are  the  most  interested  in  this  matter,  I  wait  your 
orders  to  release  him." 

"Thanks,  good  son.  But  now,  about  his  release,  and 
his  removal  hither,  there  is  a  little  awkwardness.  That 
poor,  man  with  all  his  sins  and  follies  and  weakness 
and  helplessness,  is  just  as  proud  as  Lucifer.  Who 
ever  may  help  him  or  his  family  will  have  to  do  it  very 
discreetly.  He  would  see  his  wife  and  children  in  the 
almshouse  before  ever  he  would  come  here  and  accept 
this  home  at  my  hands.  Dear  Percy,  I  am  in  a  quan- 
dery.  The  children  are  all  here  so  comfortable  and 
happy  that  they  think  themselves  in  fairy  land  or  Par 
adise.  But  how  to  get  the  father  and  mother  here 
without  wounding  their  pride  I  do  not  know." 

"Good  little  angel  mamma,  do  not  distress  yourself. 
The  haughty  gentleman  and  gallant  officer,  'Captain 
Faulkner,  has  a  saving  faith  in  a  comfortable  home,  so 
that  you  will  give  it  to  him,  as  it  were,  without  his 
knowledge  and  consent  Dear,  honest  little  mother, 
all  you  have  to  do  is  to  give  it  to  him  through  his  wife. 
He  will  know  all  the  while  that  it  is  a  gift  of  charity ; 
but  then  he  will  not  feel  obliged  to  know  it,  or  to 
acknowledge  it,  even  to  himself." 

"I  see!  Oh,  how  clever  you  are,  Percy,  dear!  You'll 
sit  upon  the  woolsack  one  of  these  days." 

"Then  it  will  be  by  cleverness,  not 'by  honesty  or  in 
tellect,"  answered  the  young  lawyer,  with  a'  bitter 
sweet  smile. 

"Well,  now,  of  course,  you  have  matured  the  whole 
matter.  Now,  how  are  you  going  to  act?  through  his 

"My  fair  mother,  it  is  you  who  will  have  to  act." 

"How?" 

"You  must  either  go  yourself " 

"That  will  not  do." 

"Or  send  some  reliable  messenger  to  the  wife,  to  put 
her  in  possession  of  the  whole,  or  of  as  much  of  the 
facts  as  you  may  deem  advisable.  She  will  know  how 
to  deal  with  her  husband,  and  to  save  his — most  ridicu 
lous — self-esteem." 

"Rachel  Wood !  T  will  send  Rachel  Wood !     She  will 


300  THE  LOST  HEIR 

know  exactly  what  to  say  and  do.    She  has  a  great  deal 
more  sense  than  I  have." 

"I  would  knock  any  man  down,  and  stand  an  action 
for  assault  and  battery,  who  should  dare  to  hint  that 
any  living  creature  had  half  the  brain  and  heart  of  my 
fair  young  mother !"  said  the  stepson,  with  enthusiasm. 

"I  am  glad  that  the  opportunity  will  not  be  afforded 
you,  dear  Percy ;  for  your  little  mother's  name  is  not  likely 
to  be  so  discussed,"  said  Mrs.  Melliss  gravely. 

Her  stepson  bowed  silently  to  the  rebuff. 

"And  now,  dear  Percy,  I  will  go  and  call  Eachel  Wood, 
and  instruct  her  in  that  part  she  is  to  play." 

"Do  so,  'belle  mere;  but  do  not  forget  that  these  Faulk- 
ners  are  not  half  so  much  averse  to  being  assisted  as  your 
own  pure  heart  gives  them  credit  for  being." 

Mrs.  Melliss  went  into  the  dining-room,  where  she  had 
left  Rachel  Wood  and  Mary  Kempton,  lunching  at  the 
second  table. 

She  found  them  loitering  in  the  bay  window,  as  if  not 
exactly  knowing  what  they  were  next  expected  to  do 
with  themselves,  and  half  inclined  to  join  the  children  in 
the  garden. 

"Rachel,  I  want  you.    Come  here,"  said  the  lady. 

And  the  girl  quickly  joined  her. 

The  lady  took  the  seamstress  up  into  one  of  the  fresh, 
fragrant  bedchambers. 

When  they  were  seated  Mrs.  Melliss  unfolded  her 
plans  for  inducing  the  "haughty"  Captain  Faulkner  to 
be  so  obliging  as  to  accept — what,  indeed,  the  beggared 
spendthrift  might  well  consider  the  most  unmerited  bless 
ing  of  his  life — a  comfortable  home  for  himself  and  his 
family. 

Rachel  Wood,  with  ready  wit,  quickly  comprehended 
the  case,  and  agreed  to  take  the  part  assigned  to  her. 

Mrs.  Melliss  then  sent  a  messenger  to  the  hotel  to  recall 
the  cab  she  had  left  there. 

And  in  half  an  hour  afterward  Rachel  Wood  was  on 
her  way  to  London. 

She  reached  the  debtor's  prison  a  few  minutes  before  the 
closing  of  the  gates. 


THE  LOST  HEIE  301 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

A  GLAD  END. 

As  Rachel  Wood's  cab  drew  up  before  the  gloomy 
doors,  she  noticed  a  "hansom"  there,  with  Mr  Percy 
Melhss  and  another  person  seated  in  it. 

She  had  chanced  to  see  the  young  barrister  several 
times  since  that  memorable  day  when  he  defended 
Madge  Brice  with  such  success. 

She  therefore  recognized  him  immediately. 
TIT  7vh'  Ml,ss  Rachel>  is  th»t  you?    You  come  from  Mrs. 
Melhss.     My  fair  stepmother  has  been  prompt,"  said 
the  young  gentleman,  as  he  alighted  and  handed  Rachel 
Wood  out  of  her  cab,  and  led  her  up  to  the  prison  door. 

Rachel  thanked  him  while  they  stood  waiting  to  be 
admitted. 

"You  have  my  mother's  instructions,  I  think?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  answered. 

"Then  I  have  only  to  add  that,  for  certain  family  rea 
sons,  I  do  not  wish  to  appear  in  this  matter  any 'more 
than  does  my  stepmother.  You  will,  therefore,' if  you 
please,  Miss  Rachel,  avoid  all  mention  of  my  name  as 
well  as  of  hers,"  said  Mr.  Percy  Melliss. 

^Certainly,  sir.     I  understand  that,"  'replied  Rachel. 
The  man  in  the  cab  there  will  attend  to  all  the  nec 
essary  formalities  involved  in  the  releasing  of  Captain 
Faulkner  from  prison.     You  will  do  the  rest 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Then    that   is    settled.     Now    then »   said    the 

young  man,  as  the  sound  of  the  opening  of  doors  was 
heard  Bolts  were  drawn,  keys  were  turned,  chains 
fell  with  a  loud  clang,  and  the  way  stood  free 

Mr   Percy  Melliss  led  Rachel  Wood  in,  and  said  to 
one  of  the  officers  of  the  prison: 

"Show  me  into  the  office,  and  then  take  this  young 
person  where  she  can  have  an  interview  with  Mrs 

with  her  husband' the 


302  THE  LOST  HEIK 

The  man  threw  open  a  door  on  the  left,  and  admitted 
Mr.  Percy  to  the  office  of  the  prison. 

And  then  he  led  the  way  to  a  door  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  hall,  and  showed  Kachel  Wood  into  a  small, 
plainly  furnished  waiting-room,  where  he  told  her  she 
could  wait  for  her  friend. 

And  then  he  went  away  to  fetch  the  prisoner's  wife. 

Kachel  had  long  to  wait — three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
that  seemed  to  her  like  three  whole  hours. 

Then  the  door  was  opened,  and  Mrs.  Faulkner, 
dressed  to  go  out,  entered,  walked  rapidly  across  the 
room,  threw  her  arms  around  Rachel  Wood's  neck,  and 
burst  into  tears,  exclaiming  eagerly: 

"Oh,  Rachel!  Rachel!  It  is  true!  it  is  true!  It  has 
happened  as  you  said  it  would.  My  poor,  dear  Charley's 
debts  are  paid,  and  he  is  released  from  durance  'by  some 
unknown  friend !'  Ah,  well  I  know  who  that  unknown 
friend  is.  My  dear  papa !  my  poor  papa !  Ah,  I  hope  my 
base  and  cruel  stepmother  won't  find  out  what  he  has 
been  secretly  doing  for  me,  and  tear  his  eyes  out  for  it ! 
Do  you  think  she  will,  Rachel?" 

"I  think,"  replied  Rachel,  "that  you  do  your  father's 
young  wife  bitter  injustice,  and  that  you  will  some  day 
acknowledge  this  with  sorrow  and  shame.  This  is  all 
I  am  at  liberty  to  say,  Mrs.  Faulkner." 

"Oh,  I  forgot!  You  are  a  partisan  of  young  Mrs. 
Melliss.  You  have  fallen  under  the  spell  of  her  fasci 
nations.  When  you  know  as  much  about  her  as  I  un 
happily  do,  you  will  not  be  so  enthusiastic  in  your 
praise." 

"Do  you  know  anything  at  all  about  that  lady,  Mrs. 
Faulkner?" 

"I  should  think  I  did!  I  know  that  she  was  a  mer 
cenary,  low  adventuress,  who  married  my  dear  father 
for  his  money,  and  then  made  fatal  mischief  between 
him  and  his  only  daughter,"  said  the  poor  lady,  bit 
terly. 

"Ah!  well,  time  will  show,"  sighed  Rachel  Wood. 
"But  now,  Mrs.  Faulkner,  we  must  leave  this  place.  I 
have  a  cab  waiting  at  the  door  to  take  you  away,"  she 
added. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  303 

"To  leave  this  place !  Ah,  yes ;  thank  Heaven,  we  may 
leave  this  place!  My  poor  Charley,  as  soon  as  he  found 
he  was  free,  and  with  a  ten-pound  note  in  his  pocket, 
sent  out  for  a  barber  to  shave  and  trim  him  up  and 
for  a  gentleman's  outfitter  to  furnish  him  with  a  com 
plete  change  of  clothes.  My  dear  Charley  is  so  fas 
tidious  as  to  his  personal  appearance!  He  never  would 
show  himself  in  the  streets  with  soiled  linen,  and  with 
a  beard  of  two  days'  growth.  We  must  wait  for  him 
here  for  a  few  minutes.  He  won't  keep  us  long." 
Rachel  Wood  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
Two  habits  of  pretty  little  helpless  Mollie  Faulkner 
tried  Rachel  Wood's  patience  severely.  The  first  was 
her  absurd  admiration  for  her  good-for-nothing  hus 
band;  and  the  second  was  her  unjust  hatred  of  her 
lovely  young  stepmother. 

As  yet  Rachel  had  not  had  time  to  explain  to  Mrs. 
Faulkner  the  happy  change  of  circumstances  that  were 
before  her. 

She  was  hesitating  how  to  begin,  when  Mollie  herself 
made  an  opening  by  saying: 

"Oh,  good  Heaven!  in  my  delight  at  my  dear  Char 
ley's  release  from  prison,  I  had  quite  forgotten  the  des 
olation  of  our  home!  Ah,  Heaven,  what  a  wretched 
place  to  go  back  to!" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Faulkner,"  said  Rachel,  cautiously, 
"the  same  kind  hand  that  paid  your  husband's  debts 
has  provided  new  lodgings  for  you.  Your  children  are 
already  there.  And  I  am  here  with  a  cab  to  take  you 
to  them,  if  you  will  consent  to  go  there." 

"Consent?  Oh,  Rachel!  what  choice  have  I?  Of 
course,  I  consent  willingly,  joyfully!  New  furnished 
lodgings,  did  you  say?  Where  are  they  Rachel?" 
eagerly  inquired  Mollie. 

"They  are  out  of  town  a  little  way.'" 
"Out  of  town?  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  of  that!  That  is 
for  cheapness,  I  suppose,  of  course.  But  I  do  not  care 
how  cheap  and  poor  and  plain  they  are,  so  that  my  chil 
dren  may  have  fresh  air,  and  my  poor,  dear  Charley 
may  be  kept  away  from  temptation." 

While  she  spoke  the  door  was  noisily  opened,  and 


304  THE  LOST  HEIR 

Captain  Faulkner  came  bustling  in,  looking  clean, 
fresh,  strong  and  handsome. 

He  bowed  slightly  to  Rachel  Wood,  and  then  hurried 
ly  addressed  his  wife. 

"Well,  Mollie,  are  you  ready  to  go?  They  are  about 
to  shut  up  here." 

"Yes,  Charlie  dear,  quite  ready;  only  waiting  i 

}°"Come  on,  then.  And  a  deuce  of  a  place  we  have  got 
to  go  to!  Bare  walls  and  bare  floors;  bare  cupboards 
and  bare  wardrobes!"  he  growled. 

"No,  no,  dear  Charley;  not  so  bare  as  all  that!  ^ur 
neighbor  of  the  old  tenement-house,  Miss  Rachel  Wood, 
has&been  so  lucky  as  to  find  furnished  lodgings  for  us, 
a  little  way  out  of  town.  But  you  won't  mind  Uat, 
Charley,  dear,  will  you,  for  a  little  while? 

"No:  any  place  will  do  for  a  few  days.  And  a  poor 
place  enough  K  is,  without  any  doubt,"'  he  added,  in  a 
low  tone,  not  to  be  uncivil  to  Rachel  Wood  whom  he 
supposed,  or  affected  to  suppose,  to  be  his  wife  s  agent 
and  messenger  in  the  engagement  of  these  lodgings. 

Mollie  tied  her  bonnet  strings,  drew  her  shawl 
around  her  and  arose  and  slipped  her  arm  m  her  bus- 

band's 

And  then  they  went  to  the  outer  door  of  the  prison, 
where,  after  more  unlocking,  unbolting  and  falling  of 
bars  and  chains,  the  door  was  opened,  and  they  found 
themselves  outside  the  prison  walls. 

"I  must  find  a  cab,"  said  the  captain. 

"No  indeed,  Charley,  dear.  Rachel  has  brought  one. 
There  it  is,  I  suspect,  around  the  corner,"  said  Moll 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  said  Rachel,  and  she  beckoned  the 

CacTptnain°  Faulkner  handed  his  wife  and  the  seam- 
stress  into  the  cab,  and  was  about  to  follow  them  in, 
when  he  paused,  hesitated,  considered,  and  a  said : 

"You'd  better  give  me  the  address  of  the  new  lodg 
ings,  Mollie,  and  let  me  follow  you  later  in  the  evening. 
There's  a  man  in  town  I  want  to  see. 

"Oh,  Charley!  can't  you  come  now?"  entreated  the 
young  wife. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  305 

"No,  dear ;  but  I'll  not  be  an  hour  behind  you." 

"Oh,  Charley!"  she  said,  with  such  a  look  of  disap 
pointment  and  apprehension  on  her  face  that  for  once 
the  better  nature  of  the  man  was  awakened.  He 
laughed  and  said: 

"I  know  exactly  what  you  are  afraid  of,  dear.  But  I 
will  set  your  fears  at  rest.  Here  is  my  pocketbook.  It 
contains  just  four  pounds  seven  shillings  and  nine- 
pence,  all  the  money  I  have  in  the  world.  Take  it  and 
keep  it  for  me,"  he  added,  taking  it  and  putting  it  into 
her  hand. 

"Oh,  Charley,  dear,  since  you  promise  me,  I  can  take 
your  word,"  she  said,  gently  putting  back  the  book. 

"You'd  better  take  the  pocketbook  also,"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh. 

"But  how,  then,  will  you  manage  to  get  out  to  the 
new  lodgings?" 

"Oh,  I  will  call  a  hansom  and  pay  it  at  the  door 
when  I  get  home.  There!  it's  all  right,  my  dear.  Go 
on,  driver!"  he  said,  closing  the  door,  and  putting  into- 
his  pocket  the  written  address  of  the  new  lodgings  that 
Rachel  had  given  him. 

"Oh,  Rachel  Wood,  isn't  he  an  angel?"  warmly  in 
quired  Mollie,  as  the  cab  drove  on. 

"I  confess  that  I  begin  to  have  hopes  that  he  may  be 
come  a  man,"  answered  the  seamstress. 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  him !  If  only  he  could  keep  out 
of  the  way  of  that  horrid  set,  he  would  always  be  just 
as  good  as  he  is  to-day,"  said  the  credulous  wife,  igno 
rant  or  forgetful  that  her  husband  was  himself  one  of 
the  very  worst  of  that  "horrid"  set  that  she  supposed  to 
be  his  tempters. 

The  carriage  rolled  rapidly  on,  and  Mollie  babbled 
about  her  favorite  subjects — the  excellence  of  her  hus 
band,  the  wickedness  of  her  stepmother,  and  the  weak 
ness  of  her  father — until  the  carriage  passed  through 
Kennington. 

Then  Mollie  left  off  talking  to  look  out  and  enjoy  the 
rare  vision  of  green  hedges,  shady  lanes  and  flower- 
gardens  near,  and  vistas  of  fields  and  woods  and 
streams  farther  off. 


306  THE  LOST  HEIR 

At  length  the  carriage  passed  through  Brixton, 
through  Lower  and  Upper  Norwood,  and  on  to  Syden- 
hain. 

"Why,  how  far  you  are  taking  me!  Quite  out  into 
the  country!"  said  Mollie,  with  increasing  surprise. 

"We  have  not  far  to  go  now,"  answered  Rachel. 

And  the  carriage  turned  into  a  deeply-shaded  green 
lane  that  led  directly  up  to  a  pretty  rustic  cottage, 
completely  enbosomed  among  trees,  and  overgrown 
with  climbing  vines. 

A  group  of  gayly-dressed  and  merry  children  were 
playing  under  the  trees  in  front  of  the  cottage. 

"Oh,  what  happy -looking  little  ones  they  are !  I  won 
der  who  lives  here,  Rachel?"  suddenly  exclaimed  Mol 
lie,  as  this  beautiful  scene  burst  upon  her  sight. 

"Look  closer,"  was  all  that  the  seamstress  answered. 

"Heaven  of  Heavens !  they  are  my  own  children !"  ex 
claimed  Mollie,  after  a  second  look.  "My  own  chil 
dren,  so  handsomely  dressed,  and  so  happily  at  play! 
Oh,  Rachel !  And  this  is  their  lovely  home !  Oh,  it  is 
too  much  joy!  My  dear  father!  Oh,  my  dear,  dear 
father!  how  I  thank  him  and  bless  him  for  this!" 

Tears  sprang  to  Rachel  Wood's  eyes,  as  she  noticed 
among  the  children  a  slender  figure  in  a  black  tweed 
cloak  and  hood,  gliding  away  to  the  deeper  shadows  of 
the  trees. 

She  knew  the  lovely  young  giver  of  all  this  good  was 
hastening  away  to  conceal  herself  from  her  stepdaugh 
ter. 

The  cab  drew  up  before  the  gate,  and  Mrs.  Faulkner 
and  Rachel  alighted. 

The  children,  instantly  recognizing  their  mother,  ran 
with  joy  to  meet  her,  and  began  with  clamorous  delight 
to  tell  her  all  about  the  wonders  and  beauties  of  their 
lovely  new  cottage  home. 

So,  talking  and  laughing  and  dancing  with  joy,  they 
drew  their  mother  into  the  house  and  into  the  pretty 
drawing-room,  where  the  elder  boy  and  girl  united 
their  little  strength  to  pull  the  large  easy-chair  toward 
her,  and  the  younger  pushed  her  into  it. 


THE  LOST  HEIR  307 

Utterly  overcome  with  emotion,  poor  Mollie  sank  in 
to  the  chair  and  drew  her  children  to  her  bosom. 

Then  Rachel  Wood,  finding  herself  forgotten  by  the 
happy  family,  seized  the  opportunity  to  slip  out  of  the 
room  and  to  go  and  look  for  Mrs.  Melliss. 

She  found  that  lady  walking  under  the  trees. 

"I  have  been  waiting  here  to  receive  your  report, 
Rachel,"  she  said,  coming  to  meet  the  seamstress. 

In  a  very  few  words  Rachel  Wood  told  Mrs.  Melliss 
all  that  had  passed  at  the  prison,  and  about  Captain 
Faulkner's  prudent  precaution  in  handing  over  his 
pocketbook  to  his  wife  for  safekeeping  while  he  himself 
remained  for  a  few  hours  in  the  city. 

"That  looks  as  if  the  man  really  meant  reform,  Ra 
chel.  And  if  he  does,  and  if  his  well-meaning  ends  in 
well-doing  I  shall  have  very  strong  hopes  that  his 
father-in-law  may  yet  become  reconciled  to  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Melliss. 

"Heaven  grant  it!"  sighed  Rachel  Wood.  "But,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Melliss,"  she  continued,  "they  are  all  under 
the  false  impression  that  it  is  you  who  keeps  up  the 
feud  between  the  father  and  daughter.  And  that  makes 
Mrs.  Faulkner  so  unjust  in  her  thoughts  and  speeches 
about  you  that  it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  be  obliged  to 
hear  it  all  in  silence.  Oh,  if  you  would  only  give  me 
leave  to  speak!" 

"No,  Rachel,  no!  Not  quite  yet.  It  would  not  be 
wise  or  prudent  to  do  so.  Some  of  these  days  they  will 
all  know  how  much  I  have  cared  for  them,"  said  the 
banker's  young  wife,  smiling  to  herself. 

"Yes,  they  will  know  that  the  hated  stepmother  and 
the  beneficent  fairy  grandmother  are  one  and  the 
same,"  added  Rachel. 

"Well,  Rachel,  I  have  seen  their  happiness,  and  now 
I  am  going  home.  But  first  may  I  ask  you  to  do  me 
another  favor?" 

"You  may  command  me  to  do  anything  in  the  world 
you  wish  me  to  do,  dear  Mrs.  Melliss,"  earnestly  an 
swered  Rachel  Wood,  whose  reverence  for  this  lady  al 
most  amounted  to  worship. 

"Thanks,  dear  Rachel.     I  will  only  ask  you,  then,  to 


308  THE  LOST  HEIR 

remain  here  for  an  hour  or  two  after  I  have  gone,  to  in 
duct  the  young  housekeeper  into  her  new  home.  And 
then  come  to  Charles  street  to  report  progress.  Can 
you  do  this?" 

"Certainly  I  can,  madam.  And  I  will  do  so  with 
great  pleasure,"  said  Kachel,  earnestly. 

"Thanks  again,  Eachel;  you  are  a  good,  unselfish 
girl.  I  will  call  and  leave  word  at  the  Family  Hotel 
for  them  to  send  a  cab  around,  say  at  eight  o'clock,  for 
you.  Will  that  do?" 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Melliss." 

"Good-by,  then,  for  the  present,"  said  the  lady. 

And  she  entered  her  cab  where  Mary  Kempton,  by 
her  mistress'  directions,  was  already  seated. 

"Back  to  town,"  was  the  order  she  gave  the  cabman, 
who  touched  his  hat  and  drove  off. 

Eachel  Wood,  with  affectionate  interest,  watched  the 
cab  out  of  sight,  and  then  went  in  and  rejoined  the 
happy  little  family. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

MOLLIE'S  MISGIVINGS. 

But  already  a  cloud  had  come  over  the  clearness  of 
their  joy — a  cloud,  though  it  was  no  darker  or  heavier 
than  the  light  summer  mist  that  tempers  the  bright 
ness  of  the  noonday  sun.  The  cloud  was  on  the  young 
mother's  brow. 

"Ah,  Rachel,  you  didn't  go  away  in  the  cab?  I  am 
so  glad !  I  wanted  to  talk  with  you,  and  to  know  more 
about  all  this,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  the  seamstress. 

"I  am  here  on  purpose  to  satisfy  you,  Mrs.  Faulk 
ner,"  answered  Rachel. 

"Run  out,  children,  and  play  in  the  garden — the  beau 
tiful  garden,"  whispered  their  mother.  And  when  the 
little  flock  had  flown  out  among  the  flowers,  she  turned 
to  the  seamstress  and  said : 

"Ah,  well,  my  dear  woman,  this  is  what  I  wanted  to 


THE  LOST  HEIK  309 

say.  It  is  all  very  beautiful  and  delightful  here,  Ra 
chel  ;  but  it  may  be  all  a  fool's  paradise,  after  all !  How 
on  earth  are  we  to  keep  it  up,  Rachel,  when  poor  Char 
ley  is  doing  nothing  and  getting  nothing?  How  are  we 
to  keep  this  up?" 

"Dear  Mrs.  Faulkner,  set  your  mind  at  ease  on  this 
subject.  The  first  quarter's  rent  for  this  cottage  has 
been  paid  in  advance " 

"The  first  quarter's  rent  for  the  cottage!  You  don't 
mean  to  say  we  have  got  the  whole  cottage  to  our 
selves?" 

"Indeed,  I  do,  ma'am,  and  there  are  eight  rooms." 

"Oh,  that  is  perfectly  delightful!  Oh,  how  long  it 
has  been  since  we  have  had  a  whole  house  to  ourselves ! 
But  will  this  last?  Oh,  will  this— can  this  last?" 

"I  hope  so,  Mrs.  Faulkner.  I  see  no  reason  why  it 
should  not.  I  was  about  to  explain  to  you,  when  you 
interrupted  me,  that  the  first  quarter's  rent  of  your 
new  house  is  already  paid  in  advance,  by  the  same  kind 
friend  who  has  cared  for  you  from  the  beginning  of 
your  troubles.  This  kind  friend " 

"Why  can  you  not  say  my  dear  father  at  once?  For 
you  know  that  I  know  he  is  my  secret  benefactor," 
again  interrupted  Mollie. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Rachel,  coldly. 

"Oh,  well — keep  the  secret,  if  you  must.  Bur  remem 
ber  that  I  know,  whoever  may  be  the  medium  of  my 
dear  father's  beneficence  to  me,  he  and  he  only,  is  the 
source  of  it.  And  now  go  on,"  said  the  obstinate  little 
lady. 

And  the  provoked  seamstress  controlled  her  temper 
and  went  on  to  say : 

"This  friend  will  continue  to  pay  the  rent  quarterly 
in  advance.  And  will  also  from  time  to  time  send  In 
all  manner  of  family  provisions,  so  as  to  keep  the  house 
well  stocked  with  every  sort  of  comfort." 

"But  why  can't  this  friend  send  the  money  to  my  hus 
band  that  he  may  provide  for  the  family?"  testily  in 
quired  the  little  lady. 

As  she  spoke  the  doorbell  rang. 


310  THE  LOST  HEIK 

Eachel  herself  went  and  opened  the  door,  and  ad* 
mitted  the  master  of  the  house. 

But  Mollie  was  quickly  behind  her. 

"So  you  kept  your  word,  Charley,  you  dear,  good  fel 
low!  Come  right  into  the  drawing-room.  Oh!  this  is 
such  a  delicious  place,  Charley!  You  will  like  it  so 
much!  Papa  has  engaged  it  for  us!  He's  coming 
round,  all  right,  Charley,  dear.  Only  give  him  time! 
There — that's  right !  Hang  up  your  hat  and  come  right 
in!'7  she  eagerly  exclaimed,  pulling  her  husband  into 
the  pretty  drawing-room,  and  shoving  him  down  into 
the  easiest  resting-chair,  very  much  as  the  children  had 
pulled  and  shoved  her  an  hour  before. 

"Oh,  see  here!  you  know "  cried  the  gallant  cap 
tain,  looking  about  him,  "I  say,  you  know !  this  is  com 
ing  it  rather  strong,  isn't  it,  Mollie?  Has  any  one  left 
you  a  legacy?  or  what's  up,  that  I  find  you  in  this 
miniature  palace?" 

"Oh,  Charley,  haven't  I  just  told  you  that  dear  papa 
has  taken  this  house  for  us,  and  paid  the  rent  in  ad 
vance  also?  And  that  he  means  to  do  a  handsome  part 
by  us,  though  he  don't  wish  to  be  known  in  it  just  now. 
That's  on  account  of  my  cruel  stepmother,  you  know !" 
explained  Mollie. 

" Whe-ew-ew !"  commented  the  captain,  with  a  long 
whistle. 

The  children  came  rushing  in  to  greet  their  father. 

They  welcomed  him  as  if  he  had  been  the  best  father 
in  the  world.  They  climbed  on  his  knee,  they  hugged 
and  kissed  him,  and  they  deafened  him  with  accounts  of 
their  beautiful  new  home,  and  of  the  good  fairy  grand 
mother  who  had  given  it  to  them. 

"Who,  what  fairy  grandmother?"  inquired  their 
father. 

"Oh !  some  woman  whom  dear  papa  has  employed  as 
his  agent,  for  a  blind,  you  know,  Charley,  dear.  She 
told  the  children  she  was  their  fairy  grandmother," 
Mollie  explained. 

"Humph !"  commented  the  captain. 

"And  now,  Charley,  while  they  are  putting  supper 
on  the  table,  we  will  go  and  look  over  the  house.  Do 


THE  LOST  HEIR  311 

you  know  I  haven't  seen  it  yet,  except  this  room?  I 
waited  for  you  to  come,  that  we  might  see  it  first  in 
company,"  said  Mollie,  putting  the  children  aside  and 
rising  to  lead  the  way. 

With  a  grunt  of  assent  the  captain  followed  her. 

They  crossed  the  little  hall,  with  its  little  stained 
glass  window,  and  inspected  the  cozy  front  sitting-room 
and  the  back  dining-room.  And  then  they  went  up 
stairs  and  looked  into  the  large  bedchamber  over  the 
drawing-room,  with  the  small  dressing-room  at  the 
back. 

"This  is  to  be  our  own  room,  of  course,  Charley. 
And  the  children  will  occupy  the  room  on  the  other  side 
of  the  hall,  over  the  front  parlor ;  and  the  two  servant- 
girls  will  sleep  in  the  back  room,  over  the  dining-room. 
Don't  you  think  that  a  good  arrangement?" 

aHumph!  I  suppose  so.  But  how  is  this  business 
to  be  managed,  Mollie?" 

"Oh,  papa  will  see  to  that.  Not  quite  in  the  way  we 
would  wish,  just  at  first,  Charley ;  for  I  think  he  is  put 
ting  us  on  a  sort  of  probation,  you  see,  Charley.  And 
that  is  the  reason,  I  think,  why  he  will  not  himself  be 
seen  in  it.  But  you  won't  mind  his  trying  us  in  this 
way,  just  a  little  at  first,  Charley,  dear,  will  you?  He'll 
come  right  all  in  good  time,"  said  Mollie,  anxiously. 

The  captain  burst  out  laughing,  and  said: 

"I  don't  care  a  copper  how  the  deuce  the  old  quiz 
does  it,  so  that  he  makes  you  and  the  children  comfort 
able,  as  he  ought,  for  you  are  his  only  daughter,  and 
they  are  his  only  set  of  grandchildren." 

"That's  right,  Charley.  Now  come ;  we  will  only  just 
glance  into  the  children's  room,  and  then  gc  down  to 
supper,"  said  his  wife. 

And  she  opened  the  door  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hall  and  showed  a  glimpse  of  a  pretty  chamber,  with 
windows  shaded  with  climbing  green  vines  without, 
and  draped  with  thin  white  muslin  within,  and  fitted 
up  with  furniture  covered  with  white  dimity. 

"Isn't  that  a  sweet  room  for  the  little  ones?"  in 
quired  Mollie. 


312  THE  LOST  HEIR 

The  captain  assented,  with  another  grunt,  and  then 
followed  his  wife  downstairs. 

They  found  Rachel  Wood  standing  in  the  hall, 
dressed  to  go  out. 

"Not  going  yet,  Rachel?"  inquired  Mollie. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  The  cab  is  waiting  to  take  me  back  to 
town.  And  the  drive  is  a  long  one,"  replied  the  seam 
stress. 

Mollie  had  pressed  her  to  stay  to  supper,  but  Rachel 
resolutely  declined  to  do  so. 

She  took  leave  of  the  parents  and  children,  and 
turned  to  go. 

"Div  lots  and  lots  of  love  and  tisses  to  fay  dammer," 
said  little  Lily. 

And  all  the  other  children  joined  her  in  sending  this 
sweet,  childish  message. 

Rachel  Wood  promised  all  they  wished,  and  then  she 
left  them. 

Captain  and  Mrs.  Faulkner,  and  their  children,  en 
joyed  some  weeks  of  unbroken  happiness  in  their  beau 
tiful  little  rustic  house. 

The  refreshing  change  from  the  unwholesome  street 
and  wretched  tenement  house  to  the  beautiful  country 
neighborhood  and  the  clean,  well-furnished  cottage,  was 
enjoyed  by  them  all — even  by  the  husband  and  father, 
despite  his  perverted  tastes. 

For,  notwithstanding  his  passion  for  wine,  cards  and 
evil  companions,  he  was  naturally  very  fond  of  his 
pretty  young  wife  and  his  fair  little  children. 

He  had  been  very  fond  of  them,  even  when  extreme 
poverty  had  made  them  all  uncleanly,  ill-clothed  and 
irritable,  and  when  their  very  existence  seemed  a  bitter 
reproach  to  himself. 

And  now  that  they  were  all  clean,  well-dressed, 
happy  and  smiling,  he  really  delighted  in  them,  and  in 
their  beautiful  home. 

Here,  too,  the  expected  babe — their  sixth  child — wa,« 
born.  It  was  a  boy,  and  named  by  his  mother  Walter 
Melliss,  after  her  father. 

And,  besides  his  natural  affection  for  wife,  children 
and  home,  Captain  Faulkner  had  two  other  saving  at- 


THE  LOST  HEIR  313 

tributes,  if  only  he  would  cultivate  them — a  taste  for 
horticulture  and  a  taste  for  literature. 

Now  he  had  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  both. 

Nearly  all  day  long  he  was  in  his  garden,  at  work 
among  his  flowers,  fruits  and  vegetables,  with  his  flock 
of  little  children  at  his  heels,  and  his  wife  sitting,  with 
her  needlework,  in  the  arbor. 

Or,  if  it  rained,  he  would  go  to  the  little  apartment  at 
the  back  of  the  drawing-room,  which  he  had  fitted  up 
for  a  study,  and  read  books  on  horticulture,  borrowed 
from  a  neighboring  library,  or  he  would  write  articles 
on  the  same  grand  subject  and  send  them  to  the  papers. 
These  articles  were  occasionally  accepted,  and  well 
paid  for. 

Thus  occupied  with  his  wife,  children,  home  and 
hobby,  the  half-reformed  spendthrift  seemed  safe  and 
happy. 

He  never  seemed  to  wish  to  go  to  town,  or  to  seek 
out  his  late  evil  companions.  It  may  well  have  been 
that  he  was  afraid  of  being  found  out  by  them,  and 
tempted  again  into  the  downward  road. 

As  for  poor  Mollie,  she  seemed  to  think  her  dear 
Charley  was  growing  into  an  angel  in  downright  earn 
est. 

Would  this  happy  state  last?    Who  could  tell? 

At  any  rate,  it  lasted  some  weeks,  when,  late  in  the 
summer,  Captain  Faulkner  took  it  into  his  head  that 
he  must  have  "a  boy"  to  wait  on  him,  that,  in  fact,  "a 
boy"  was  indispensable  to  his  comfort. 

"You  know,  Mollie,"  he  said,  "it  is  absolutely  neces 
sary  that  I  should  have  some  one  to  brush  my  coat  and 
black  my  boots  and  run  my  errands." 

"Of  course  it  is,  Charley,  dear,"  assented  Mollie,  who 
would  have  assented  to  anything  in  the  world  her  para 
gon  might  please  to  propose.  "Of  course  you  must 
have  a  servant  of  your  own.  I  only  wonder  how  you 
have  managed  to  do  without  one  this  long!" 

"Well,  it  is  not  much  of  a  servant  that  I  shall  be  able 
to  keep,  you  know.  Only  a  boy— one  that  I  can  have 
authority  enough  over  to  train  him  in  my  own  ways. 
And  now  I  think  of  it,  I  will  go  and  see  if  I  can't  find 


SU  THE  LOST  HEIR 

one  to  suit  me  at  the  Middlesex  Workhouse.  If  I  can 
I  will  have  him  bound  to  me,  and  then  he  will  be  mine 
to  do  as  I  please  with.  If  I  were  not  a  Briton,  Mollie, 
I  would  say  that  the  next  best  thing  to  having  a  slave 
of  one's  own  is  to  have  a  bound  boy  of  one's  own.  Don't 
you  think  so?" 

"I — I  never  thought  about  that  at  all ;  but,  of  course, 
you  must  be  right,  Charley,  dear,"  assented  Mollie. 

"Then  I'll  go  and  brush  my  coat  and  black  my  boots 
for  the  last  time,  and  get  ready  to  ride  to  town.  And, 
Mollie,  dear,  here  are  my  best  gloves  with  all  the  finger 
ends  blowing  out,  like  the  leaves  of  my  favorite  flowers. 
Just  mend  them  for  me,  will  you?" 

And  he  went  off,  leaving  his  little  wife  a  good  half- 
hour's  work. 

She  had  nearly  completed  the  task  when  he  came  in, 
all  ready  for  his  ride,  and  in  a  hurry  for  his  gloves. 

"Charley,  dear,"  she  pleaded,  as  she  gave  them  to 
him,  "I  want  to  ask  you  one  favor,  if  you  won't  mind." 

"Ask  away,  Mollie." 

"This  is  the  first  time  you  have  left  me  to  go  into 
town  since  we  have  been  living  so  happily  here.  Oh, 
Charley,  promise  me  you  won't  go  near  any  of  that 
horrid  set!" 

"If  I  should  see  one  of  them,  I  will  run  from  him  as 
,  if  he  were  a  mad  dog !"  answered  the  captain,  laugh 
ing  good-humoredly. 

"That's  a  dear  fellow !"  she  exclaimed,  kissing  him. 

And  so  the  captain  went  away  to  find  "a  boy"  who 
should  be  the  "next  best  thing  to  a  slave"  of  his  own. 

Meantime  Mollie  anxiously  awaited  his  return,  and 
earnestly  hoped  that  he  would  keep  his  promise. 

The  day  seemed  very  long  to  her  uneasy  heart,  but  it 
passed  at  length,  as  the  longest  day  does. 

Mollie  heard  the  whistle  of  the  "parliamentary" 
train  from  London,  and  went  out  to  the  gate  to  watch 
for  her  husband,  whom  she  expected  would  return  by 
that  one,  and  walk  from  the  station. 

She  waited  about  ten  minutes,  and  then  she  saw  him 
and  a  small  lad  turn  into  the  lane  leading  up  to  the 
cottage. 


THE  LOST    HEIR  315 

"Thank  Heaven !"  she  fervently  breathed ;  for,  by  his 
very  step  and  bearing,  as  he  rapidly  approached,  she 
saw  that  he  had  kept  his  promise  to  her. 

In  another  minute  he  was  at  the  gate,  and  she  threw 
her  arms  around  his  neck  and  welcomed  him  home  as 
joyfully  as  if  he  had  just  returned  from  a  long  and 
dangerous  voyage. 

But  then,  you  see,  she  knew  how  much  danger  he 
really  had  been  in. 

He  laughed  and  kissed  her,  as  he  said : 

"Come  into  the  house.  I  want  you  to  look  at  my 
new  boy." 

"And  I  want  you  to  come  to  tea.  It  is  quite  ready," 
she  answered,  as  she  led  the  way  into  the  cottage. 

There,  in  the  full  light  of  the  parlor,  Mollie  turned 
to  see  the  bound  boy. 

He  was  a  fair-skinned,  blue-eyed,  golden-haired  lad, 
with  very  delicate  features  and  a  very  refined  coun 
tenance. 

It  was  no  other  than  little  Benny,  who  had  been  lit 
erally  snatched  from  the  grave,  and  whose  further  ad 
ventures  will  be  chronicled  in  the  sequel  to  this  story, 
entitled,  "A  Noble  Lord,"  published  uniform  with  this 
volume. 


THB  END. 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
Of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


A  COLONIAL  FREE-LANCE.  A  story  of  American  Colonial  Times.  By 
Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis  Price,  $1.00. 

A  book  that  appeals  to  Americans  as  a  vivid  picture  of  Revolutionary 
scenes.  The  story  is  a  strong  one,  a  thrilling  one.  It  causes  the  true 
American  to  flush  with  excitement,  to  devour  chapter  after  chapter,  until 
the  eyes  smart,  and  it  fairly  smokes  with  patriotism.  The  love  story  is  ,% 
singularly  charming  idyl. 

THE  TOWER  OP  LONDON.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Times  of  Laay 
Jane  Grey  and  Mary  Tudor.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with 
four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  Price,  |i.oo. 

This  romance  of  the  "Tower  of  London"  depicts  the  Tower  as  palace, 
prison  and  fortress,  with  many  historical  associations.  The  era  ia  the 
middle  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

The  story  is  divided  into  two  parts,  one  dealing  with  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
and  the  other  with  Mary  Tudor  as  Queen,  introducing  other  notable  char 
acters  of  the  era.  Throughout  the  story  holds  the  interest  of  the  reader 
In  the  midst  of  intrigue  and  conspiracy,  extending  considerably  over  a 
half  a  century. 

IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  KING.  A  Romance  of  the  American  Revolution. 
By  Chauncey  C.  Hotchkiss.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  |i.oo. 

Mr.  Hotchkiss  has  etched  in  burning  words  a  story  of  Yankee  bravery, 
and  true  love  that  thrills  from  beginning  to  end,  with  the  spirit  of  the- 
Revolution.  The  heart  beats  quickly,  and  we  feel  ourselves  taking  a 
part  in  the  exciting  scenes  described.  Hie  whole  story  is  so  absorbing 
that  you  will  sit  up  far  into  the  night  to  finish  it.  As  a  love  romance 
It  is  charming. 

GARTHOWEN.  A  story  of  a  Welsh  Homestead.  By  Allen  Raine.  Cloth, 
xamo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  little  idyl  of  humble  life  and  enduring  love,  laid  bare  before 
us,  very  real  and  pure,  which  in  its  telling  shows  us  some  strong  points  of 
Welsh  character— the  pride,  the  hasty  temper,  the  quick  dying  out  of  wrath. 
.  We  call  this  a  well-written  story,  interesting  alike  through  its 
romance  and  its  glimpses  into  another  life  than  ours.  A  delightful  and 
clever  picture  of  Welsh  village  life.  The  result  is  excellent." — Detroit  Frew 
Press. 

•    MIFANWY.     The  story  of  a  Welsh  Singer.      By  Allan  Raine.     Cloth, 
'  t2tno.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.    Price,  $1.00. 

"This  is  a  love  story,  simple,  tender  and  pretty  as  one  would  care  to 
read.  The  action  throughout  is  brisk  and  pleasing;  the  characters,  it  is  ap 
parent  at  once,  are  as  true  to  life  as  though  the  author  had  known  them 
all  personally.  Simple  in  all  its  situations,  the  story  is  worked  up  in  that 
touching  and  quaint  strain  which  never  grows  wearisome,  no  matter  how 
often  the  lights  and  shadows  of  love  are  introduced.  It  rings  true,  and 
does  not  tax  the  imagination." — Boston  Herald. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  pubt 
Ushers,  A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  52-58  Duane  St.,  New  York. 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


DARNLEY.  A  Romance  of  the  times  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Cardinal  Wolsey. 
»y  G.  P.  R.  James.  Cloth,  i2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis. 
Price,  II.DO. 

In  point  of  publication,  "Darnley"  Is  that  work  by  Mr.  James  which 
follows  "Richelieu,"  and,  if  rumor  can  be  credited,  it  was  owing  to  the  ad 
vice  and  insistence  of  our  own  Washington  Irving  that  we  are  indebted 
primarily  for  the  story,  the  young  author  questioning  whether  he  could 
properly  paint  the  difference  in  the  characters  of  the  two  great  cardinals. 
And  it  is  not  surprising  that  James  should  have  hesitated;  he  had  been 
eminently  successful  in  giving  to  the  world  the  portrait  of  Richelieu  as  a 
man,  and  by  attempting  a  similar  task  with  Wolsey  as  the  theme,  was 
much  like  tempting  fortune.  Irving  insisted  that  "Darnley"  came  natur 
ally  in  sequence,  and  this  opinion  toeing  supported  by  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
the  author  set  about  the  work. 

As  a  historical  romance  "Darnley"  is  a  book  that  can  be  taken  up 
pleasurably  again  and  again,  for  there  is  about  it  that  subtle  charm  which 
those  who  are  strangers  to  the  works  of  G.  P.  R.  James  have  claimed  wa* 
only  to  be  imparted  by  Dumas. 

If  there  was  nothing  more  about  the  work  to  attract  especial  attention, 
the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  kings  on  the  historic  "field  of  the  cloth  of 
cold"  would  entitle  the  story  to  the  most  favorable  consideration  of  every 
reader. 

There  Is  really  but  little  pure  romance  in  this  story,  for  the  author  has 
taken  care  to  imagine  love  passages  only  between  those  whom  history  has 
credited  with  having  entertained  the  tender  passion  one  for  another,  and 
be  aucceeds  in  making1  such  lovers  as  all  the  world  must  love. 

CAPTAIN  BRAND,  OP  THE  SCHOONER  CENTIPEDE.  By  Ueut. 
Henry  A.  Wise,  U.S. N.  (Harry  Gringo).  Cloth,  izrno.  with  four  illustrat- 
tions  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  $i.eo. 

The  re-publication  of  this  story  will  please  those  lovers  of  sea  yarn* 
*rho  delight  in  so  much  of  the  salty  flavor  of  the  ocean  as  can  come  through 
the  medium  of  a  printed  page,  for  never  has  a  story  of  the  sea  and  those 
•'who  go  down  in  ships"  been  written  by  one  more  familiar  with  the  scene* 
depicted. 

The  one  book  of  this  gifted  author  which  is  best  remembered,  and  which 
•Will  be  read  with  pleasure  for  many  years  to  come,  is  "Captain  Brand," 
who,  as  the  author  states  on  his  title  page,  was  a  "pirate  of  eminence  in 
the  West  Indies."  As  a  sea  story  pure  and  simple,  "Captain  Brand"  hat. 
never  been  excelled,,  and  as  a  story  of  piratical  life,  told  without  the  UBU«' 
embellishments  of  blood  and  thunder,  it  has  no  equal. 

NICK  OP  THE  WOODS.  A  story  of  the  Early  Settlers  of  Kentucky.  By 
Robert  Montgomery  Bird.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson 
Davis.  Price,  $1.00. 

This  most  popular  novel  and  thrilling  story  of  early  frontier  life  In 
Kentucky  was  originally  published  in  the  year  1837.  The  novel,  long  out  of 

?rint,  had  in  its  day  a  phenomenal  sale,  for  its  realistic  presentation  of 
ndian  and  frontier  life  in  the  early  days  of  settlement  in  the  South,  nar 
rated  in  the  tale  with  all  the  art  of  a  practiced  writer.  A  very  charming 
love  romance  runs  through  the  story-  This  new  and  tasteful  edition  of 
"Nick  of  the  Woods"  will  be  certain  to  make  many  new  admirers  fo»> 
this  enchanting  story  from  Dr.  Bird's  clever  and  versatile  pen. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  OR  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publishers,  A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  114-120  East  23d  Street,  New  York 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


GUY  FAWKES.  A  Romance  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  By  Win.  Harri 
son  Ainsworth.  Cloth.,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank. 
Price,  $1.00. 

The  "Gunpowder  Plot"  was  a  modest  attempt  to  blow  up  Parliament, 
the  King  and  his  Counsellors.  James  of  Scotland,  then  King  of  England, 
•was  weak-minded  and  extravagant.  He  hit  upon  the  efllcient  scheme  of 
extorting  money  from  the  people  by  imposing  taxes  on  the  Catholics.  In 
their  natural  resentment  to  this  extortion,  a  handful  of  bold  spirits  con 
cluded  to  overthrow  the  government.  Finally  the  plotters  were  arrested, 
and  the  King  put  to  torture  Guy  Fawkes  and  the  other  prisoners  with 
royal  vigor.  A  very  intense  love  story  runs  through  the  entire  romance. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  BORDER.  A  Romance  of  the  Early  Settlers  in  the 
Ohio  Valley.  By  Zane  Grey.  Cloth,  izmo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watsoa 
Davis.  Price.  $1 .  oo. 

A  book  rather  out  of  the  ordinary  Is  this  "Spirit  of  the  Border."  Tht 
main  thread  of  the  story  has  to  do  with  the  work  of  the  Moravian  mis 
sionaries  in  the  Ohio  Valley.  Incidentally  the  reader  is  given  details  of  the 
frontier  life  of  those  hardy  pioneers  who  broke  the  wilderness  for  the  plant- 
Ing  of  this  great  nation.  Chief  among  these,  as  a  matter  of  course,  is 
Lewis  Wetzel,  one  of  the  most  peculiar,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
admirable  of  all  the  brave  men  who  spent  their  lives  battling  with  the 
savage  foe,  that  others  might  dwell  in  comparative  security. 

Details  of  the  establishment  and  destruction  of  the  Moravian  "Village 
of  Peace"  are  given  at  some  length,  and  with  minute  description.  The 
efforts  to  Christianize  the  Indians  are  described  as  they  never  have  been 
"before,  and  the  author  has  depicted  the  characters  of  the  leaders  of  the 
several  Indian  tribes  with  great  care,  which  of  itself  will  be  of  interest  td 
the  student. 

By  no  means  least  among  the  charms  of  the  story  are  the  vlvfd  word- 
pictures  of  the  thrilling  adventures,  and  the  intense  paintings  of  the  beau 
ties  of  nature,  as  seen  in  the  almost  unbroken  forests. 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  frontier  which  is  described,  and  one  can  by  it. 
perhaps,  the  better  understand  why  men,  and  women,  too,  willingly  braved 
every  privation  and  danger  that  the  westward  progress  of  the  star  of  em 
pire  might  be  the  more  certain  and  rapid.  A  love  story,  simple  and  tender,. 
runs  through  the  book. 

RICHELIEU.  A  tale  of  France  in  the  reign  of  King  I/mis  XIH.  By  G.  P. 
H.  James.  Cloth,  I2mo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J.  Watson  Davis.  Price,  gz.oou 

In  1829  Mr.  James  published  his  first  romance,  "Richelieu,"  and  waa 
•recognized  at  once  as  one  of  the  masters  of  the  craft. 

In  this  book  he  laid  the  story  during  those  later  days  of  the  great  car 
dinal's  life,  when  his  power  was  beginning  to  wane,  but  while  it  waa 
yet  sufficiently  strong  to  permit  now  and  then  of  volcanic  outbursts  whichi 
overwhelmed  foes  and  carried  friends  to  the  topmost  wave  of  prosperity- 
One  of  the  most  striking  portions  of  the  story  is  that  of  Cinq  Mar's  conspir 
acy;  the  method  of  conducting  criminal  cases,  and  the  political  trickery 
resorted  to  by  royal  favorites,  affording  a  better  insight  into  the  state 
craft  of  that  day  than  can  be  had  even  by  an  exhaustive  study  of  history. 
It  is  a  powerful  romance  of  love  and  diplomacy,  and  in  point  of  thrilling 
and  absorbing  interest  has  never  been  excelled. 

For  gale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  toe 
»ubUshers,  A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  114-120  East  23d  Street,  Hew  York 


Good  Fiction  Worth  Reading. 

A  series  of  romances  containing  several  of  the  old  favorites  in  the  field 
Of  historical  fiction,  replete  with  powerful  romances  of  love  and  diplomacy 
that  excel  in  thrilling  and  absorbing  interest. 


WINDSOR  CASTLE.  A  Historical  Romance  of  the  Reign-of  Henry  VIII., 
Catharine  of  Aragon  and  Anne  Boleyn.  By  Wm.  Harrison  Ainsworth.  Cloth, 
>2ino.  with  four  illustrations  by  George  Cruikshank.  Price,  |i.oo. 

"Windsor  Castle"  Is  the  story  of  Henry  VIII.,  Catharine,  and  Anne 
Boleyn.  "Bluff  King:  Hal,"  although  a  well-loved  monarch,  was  none  too 
good  a  one  in  many  ways.  Of  all  his  selfishness  and  unwarrantable  acts, 
none  was  more  discreditable  than  his  divorce  from  Catharine,  and  his  mar- 
Hare  to  the  beautiful  Anne  Boleyn.  The  King's  love  was  as  brief  as  It 
was  vehement.  Jane  Seymour,  waiting  maid  on  the  Queen,  attracted  him, 
and  Anne  Boleyn  was  forced  to  the  block  to  make  room  for  her  successor. 
This  romance  is  one  of  extreme  interest  to  all  readers. 

HORSESHOE  ROBINSON.  A  tale  of  the  Tory  Ascendency  in  South  Caro 
lina  in  1780.  By  John  P.  Kennedy.  Cloth,  ismo.  with  four  illustrations  by  J. 
WaUon  Davis.  Price,  |i.co. 

Among  the  old  favorites  in  tie  field  of  what  Is  known  as  historical  fic 
tion,  there  are  none  which  appeal  to  a  larger  number  of  Americans  thai* 
Horseshoe  Robinson,  and  this  because  It  Is  the  only  story  which  depict* 
*vlth  fidelity  to  the  facts  the  heroic  efforts  of  the  colonists  in  South  Caro 
lina  to  defend  their  homes  against  the  brutal  oppression  of  the  Britim 
under  such  leaders  as  Cornwallis  and  Tarleton. 

The  reader  is  charmed  with  the  story  of  love  which  forms  the  thread 
pf  the  tale,  and  then  impressed  with  the  wealth  of  detail  concerning  thos« 
times.  The  picture  of  the  manifold  sufferings  of  the  people,  is  never  over 
drawn,  but  painted  faithfully  and  honestly  by  one  who  spared  neither 
time  nor  labor  in  his  efforts  to  present  in  this  charming  love  story  all  that 
price  in  blood  and  tears  which  the  Carolinians  paid  as  their  share  in  th« 
winning  of  the  republic. 

Take  it  all  in  all,  "Horseshoe  Robinson"  is  a  work  which  should  be 
found  on  every  book-shelf,  not  only  be«ause  it  is  a  most  entertaining 
Btory,  but  because  of  the  wealth  of  valuable  information  concerning  tha 
colonists  which  it  contains.  That  It  has  been  brought  out  once  more,  well 
Illustrated,  is  something  which  will  give  pleasure  to  thousands  who  have 
long  desired  an  opportunity  to  read  the  story  again,  and  to  the  many  who; 
have  tried  vainly  in  these  latter  days  to  procure  a  copy  that  they  might 
read  it  for  the  first  time. 

THE  PEARL  OP  ORR'S  ISLAND.  A  story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine.  By 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe.  Cloth,  i2mo.  Illustrated.  Price,  $1.00. 

Written  prior  to  1862,  the  "Pearl  of  Orr's  Island"  is  ever  new;  a  book 
filled  with  delicate  fancies,  such  as  seemingly  array  themselves  anew  eacrt 
time  one  reads  them.  One  sees  the  "sea  like  an  unbroken  mirror  all 
around  the  pine-girt,  lonely  shores  of  Orr's  Island,  and  straightway 
comes  "the  heavy,  hollow  moan  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  like  the  wild 
angry  howl  of  some  savage  animal." 

Who  can  read  of  the  beginning  of  that  sweet  life,  named  Mara,  which 
came  Into  this  world  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  Death  angel  s  wings, 
without  having  an  intense  desire  to  know  how  the  premature  bud  I 
eomed?  Again  and  again  one  lingers  over  the  descriptions  of  the  char 
acter  of  that  baby  boy  Moses,  who  came  through  the  tempest,  amid  the 
angry  billows,  pillowed  on.  his  dead  mother's  breast. 

There  is  no  more  faithful  portrayal  of  New  England  life  than  that 
Which  Mrs.  Stowe  gives  in  "The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the  pub 
lishers,  A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY,  52-58  Duane  St.,  New  York. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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General  Library 

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